


Kiss it better

by karamel_dreams



Series: What if I told you a story... [12]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, I promise, Minor Injuries, This is more fun and games than angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karamel_dreams/pseuds/karamel_dreams
Summary: Mon-El is an ER doctor. Kara is an FBI agent, who ends up in the ER a lot. Particularly, in the ER Mon-El works at.
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Mon-El, Winn Schott Jr./Eve Teschmacher
Series: What if I told you a story... [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689337
Comments: 123
Kudos: 270





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I hope you're all staying safe and healthy.
> 
> So, I started this new story while I'm trying to get back to writing, and I wanted to share it with you all. I hope you enjoy it.

It's Monday. He's working the night shift and is already on his third cup of hideous, watery, hospital cafeteria coffee. The evening has been quiet, which only means that it's going to get crazier and crazier later on, and although he doesn't want to jinx it, he's worked through too many nights in the ER to know peace doesn't exist within these walls. There's only a calm before the storm.

Stopping by the nurses' station, he grabs the stethoscope he'd left there earlier and takes a look at the case board. His last patient has been moved up to recovery, another one having been discharged, thus for the time being, he's free. So Mon-El stands there, having nothing else to do, and accepts the papers one of the nurses hands him to fill out and sign.

"Hey, Mon-El? Can you handle Exam 3 for me? I'm swamped," he hears from his left and nods before even turning to look at Dr. Olsen.

"No, I got that one," his friend, Dr. Winn Schott, cuts in. "Take Bed 4. It's your fed," he says with a knowing smirk and pats Mon-El's shoulder as he passes by.

Mon-El rolls his eyes in response and hands the signed papers back to Eve. She's got something to say, he can sense it, but he doesn't stall enough for her to add to her boyfriend's teasing. Instead, he quickly grabs the chart she's put in front him and heads toward his familiar patient's bed.

"Back here already, Danvers?" he says as he pulls the curtain open, gaze rising from the chart to find her unfocused, unamused face. "You missed me that much?"

"You know I did," she smirks at his words, her demeanor shifting when she sees him, but he can see the edges of her mouth faltering and her jaw tightening in discomfort.

He studies her for a moment, glad to notice that the nasty bruise she'd been sporting around her eye the last time he'd seen her was no longer there. "You know, you don't have to go and get yourself hurt every time you want to see me."

"What can I say, Matthews? I can't help it. You've grown on me."

He quirks an eyebrow at that, surprised at her response. Usually, she never lets him get the upper hand. She keeps him on his toes, dodging all his innuendos and throwing back harder, smarter, until he has no other choice than to accept defeat. The one thing she's never done is to indulge his flirting and overconfidence in a way that spells anything but challenge and rejection. That alone, however, tells him enough to know this is not a simple bumps-and-bruises kind of ER visit.

"Were you working tonight?" he asks as he begins to assess her condition. He knows she's hurt her wrist because there's ice resting on it and he did catch a glimpse of the purple and bluish skin underneath. There's also a blooming bruise on her jaw and a small cut across one of her eyebrows. Those aren't worse than her usual injuries, though, and they don't explain the change in her mood. So he's left with a whole list of questions he needs to ask and a full checkup he needs to go through, since she isn't feeling particularly talkative tonight.

She offers him a nod and hisses when he shines light directly into her eyes, having to force her head to stay still and not turn away.

"Did you hit your head?" He places a gloved hand on her shoulder. "Follow the light, please."

"I fell down a flight of stairs," she elaborates and does as told.

"Damn, Danvers." With a click, the light is off, but Mon-El's features only twist in concern. "What happened?"

"Caught a suspect. We fought for a minute or two and then he pushed me down some stairs. I blacked out long enough for him to get away."

"What about your partner?" He reaches for her injured wrist. "Please don't tell me you went out alone like that other time."

"There were two suspects," she simply says and Mon-El cannot tell whether she doesn't want to or isn't allowed to explain further.

He holds her wrist in a gentle grasp but she still bites her lip to hold pained sounds back every time he moves the limb even the slightest bit. "I know it hurts, but can you try to move your fingers?"

"It's not broken," she wiggles her fingers long enough for him to nod in agreement, watching his skeptical expressions carefully.

"It's probably sprained but I'll have a nurse take you up for an x-ray to see what's going on." He gives her the ice pack back. "Any nausea? Dizziness? Headache?"

"All of 'em," the words are accompanied by a grimace.

Mon-El makes a humming sound in his throat. "Definitely a concussion, so I'm ordering a CT scan too."

"Is there any chance I'll be out of here early enough to catch some sleep, doc?"

"I'll try. I don't know how long the tests are gonna take but I'll try to speed things up, okay?"

"Thanks," she mumbles and lies back on the bed as soon as Mon-El pulls his stethoscope from around his neck. She knows the drill by now, this must be the forth (maybe fifth?) time she's been in the ER with him. It's got to the point she knows most of the nurses by name and for some reason, although she would never make such a request, they always assign her to Matthews.

He rubs the end of the stethoscope to his scrubs to warm it up, being the usual thoughtful ass that he is, and she doesn't make a comment about him wanting to feel up her boobs when he listens to her heart. She does, however, attempt another smirk – a more successful one this time – when he slowly lifts her shirt up. "Woah, Matthews, slow down. A lady likes to be wined and dined before you start to take her clothes off."

He chuckles at that, shaking his head as he presses down on several spots. There are a few superficial bruises across her stomach but there's no pain or rigidness and her ribs look unscathed. "Everything seems okay here. Is there any pain I should be aware of?"

"Nah, I'm okay, I just took a nasty fall, that's all."

"Okay," he nods, gray eyes turning away to focus on her chart. He writes some things down and hangs it at the end of her bed. "One to ten, where's your pain at?" That's supposed to be his last question, but he knows it's unlikely she'll give him a straight answer.

"Maybe a four?" He raises an eyebrow at her. "Four and a half?" she tries again. He still doesn't look convinced. "Five and two thirds. That's my final offer."

Mon-El laughs, dimples adorning both of his cheeks and making her stare. He notices that, just like he noticed the way she checked him out earlier, although she didn't make a comment about how his ass looks in those scrubs this time. He's heard it before, and truth be told, there are some things he's learned to expect from her. Their banter and flirting seem to go in circles, hinting at truths and carefully restrained attraction they both know they feel toward the other but refuse to act on.

"So you're definitely a six," he says, pretty sure she's downplaying her pain level again.

The blonde startles him with an exaggerated gasp. "What did you just call me?" she feigns offense. "I'm a solid ten, thank you very much."

"That's not what I meant," he shakes his head, amusement evident in his stormy gaze. "Okay, so," he takes a step back, "a nurse will come to get an IV in and take you up for your tests. I'll take a look at your CT scan as soon as it's done and then we'll take care of the wrist. Three hours at most. Sounds good?"

"Perfect," she says sarcastically but there's a genuine – albeit small – smile on her face.

"You can take a nap after your CT," he offers. It's more of a bribe to get another smile from her ( _he's that weak_ ) but it actually works.

"Now, that's something. Thanks, Matthews."

"Anytime," he tells her and walks away all too aware of his racing heart.

(Damn, that woman... She's done a number on him.) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with more of this story!  
> Thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments on the first chapter, you guys are amazing ❤

"Time of death 6:30 p.m.," Mon-El announces, taking his gloves off with such brusque movements they snap as they slide off his fingers. A heavy sigh escapes his mouth, the newly acquired weight of losing a patient doubling atop his shoulders, and he storms away before the nurses can even pull a sheet over the late girl's face. "Damn drunk drivers," he mumbles as an afterthought, eyes lowering to his blood-soaked scrubs.

There's an ache lingering in the muscles of his arms due to the time he spent doing compressions and he uses his short sleeve to wipe the sweat along his hairline. His mouth is dry, his chest tight and the sound of the straight, unchanging line of the monitor is still ringing in his ears in a way he can't tell whether the machine has been shut off or still echoing. There's blood splattered on his shoes too, he notices, which will undoubtedly be a nightmare to wash off later, but that's also an afterthought.

His steps are heavy and he can sense several gazes following him. He doesn't lift his head to meet them, though. He knew it was touch-and-go the moment the girl was brought in; he doesn't need anyone reminding him of the fact in a feeble attempt to absolve him of his guilt. Still, he can't help entertaining all the what-if's and could-have's. The girl was only eighteen, she had her whole life ahead of her. What if there was something more he could've done? What if there existed even the slightest possibility of saving her and he, for whatever reason, didn't make use of it?

Before he knows it, he's walked into the restroom and shut the door behind him. He stalls there for a minute, back against the wood, knees weak and hands trembling, counting inhales and exhales. He hasn't lost anyone in a while — he almost forgot how cold and helpless it always makes him feel.

The place is empty and mostly quiet, so Mon-El tries to fill up the silence with his own presence. The faucet is left running, his breath is still loud, his shuffling feet adding to the cacophony. The water on his face does little to soothe him, more like putting a bandaid on a bleeding gunshot wound, and when he attempts to clean some of the blood off his clothes with paper towels, he only succeeds in making a bigger mess of himself.

When he hears the unmistakable click of the door and it's pushed open, he forces his head to stay still. But when a pair of familiar eyes find his own in the stained mirror, his breath gets caught in his throat.

"Hey," Danvers calls out to him softly, in a tone he's never heard from her before. "I saw what happened. I'm sorry you lost your patient," she takes a careful step closer, as if afraid of his reaction.

Mon-El tries to smile at her. "Happens all the time," he mumbles, "it's okay."

"It's not," she shakes her head, not fooled by his half-hearted pretence. She takes another step, still watching him, and when she's certain it's okay to approach, she stands next to him.

They don't talk for a long time, both looking at each other through their reflections. Mon-El is struggling to calm down, to silence his asphyxiating doubts, to drown the worst of his thoughts. But there's a calmness in the way the blonde is watching him; she is not judging, just merely standing beside him for the sake of it. And he doesn't know her, not really, he's only treated her a few times and gotten to know some of the most basic things about her life. There's something in her eyes though, something that tells him she understands how he's feeling. So he holds onto that, easing his fingers from their tight fists, allowing his lungs to fill enough that his heart stops pounding after a minute or two.

Her hands are careful, her motions still slow when she grabs some paper towels and soaks them under water. She gives him a questioning look, gesturing to the side of his face and he nods in approval without any words being said. Gentle fingers touch his cheek, wiping the dried droplets of blood there, and then move to the side of his neck only to repeat the process.

"You don't have to do this," he whispers, unaware as to why his voice is so low. He clears his throat and speaks again: "I know I'm a mess, I'll just go home and clean up there. My shift is almost over, anyway."

"Maybe I want to return the favor for all the times you've patched me up and taken care of me." There's a soft grin across her lips, which he's not used to seeing, more familiar with her smirks and mischievous countenances. She finishes her task and disposes of the bloody paper but doesn't turn around to leave.

"Thank you," Mon-El breathes out, running a shaky hand through his hair. His shoulders slump a little, the weariness of the day's work and events catching up to him. "I've been doing this job for years, I know not everyone can be saved, but sometimes–" he pauses, closing his eyes for a brief moment, "sometimes it hits me harder than I'm prepared for."

"Yeah, I know," the blonde nods with a sigh, earning a questioning quirk of a brow in response. "No matter what the movies show you, being an agent is not only about chasing bad guys. It's certainly not why I got into this job. More often than not, it's about saving people from bad guys too."

Mon-El offers a nod of his own. "Speaking of your job," he changes the subject, "why are you here? Are you okay?" The question is laced with concern, his eyes checking her over head to toe, looking for injuries. That's how he always sees her — the very reason why he sees her. He can't help the worry that bursts within him.

"I'm fine," she says and he visibly relaxes. "I gave my sister a ride. She works here."

A skeptical expression passes across Mon-El's features, his forehead creasing as he tries to figure out if he knows the other Danvers. "Is she the new surgeon?" he wonders.

"Yep, that's her. Alex Danvers."

"Right. I've met her. I asked her for a consult the other day, actually. How did I not put that together?"

"Well, you're not the brightest one there is, I must say," the blonde is teasing him and he knows it.

"Says the one who jumped from a two-story window and complained that her vest didn't protect her bones," he throws back, a glint starting to appear in his eyes.

"That's a low blow, Matthews. Those things can stop a fricking bullet, how was I supposed to know it wouldn't break my fall?"

"You dislocated your shoulder! Your vest doesn't even cover your shoulders!"

"And what does that tell us?" she asks him like it's obvious, her voice confident as ever. "That the fault is in the vest design, not in my planning skills."

"Yeah, sure," Mon-El rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting up despite himself. "I think you just wanted to see that hot ER doctor again and you used the fall as the perfect excuse."

"Yes!" Kara replies without missing a beat. The deceitful agreement is clear in that single syllable. "But I didn't get the hot ER doctor that day," she continues with a frown, which quickly turns into a grimace, "all I got was your ugly face and bad bedside manners."

Mon-El can't help but laugh, letting their ridiculous banter drag him away from all the things threatening to drag him down. He doesn't respond to the blonde's insult, instead choosing to let the lack of speaking ease them into a sobering silence. "Listen, Kara," he uses her first name for what might be the first time since he's met her, succeeding in getting her undivided attention. "Thank you for staying with me while I was freaking out and helping me clean up and come back to myself. I know I lost it there for a moment and you don't really know me, you didn't have to stay, but it means a lot to me that you did."

"You're welcome," she tells him quietly, as if she's afraid to speak louder and ruin their moment. (Because they _are_ having a moment, she can feel it, and perhaps it's nothing more than wishful thinking, but she believes he can feel it too.) "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah," he says and glances at his wristwatch. "And my shift is over, thank God," their gazes meet again, "I'm so ready to go home. I don't even remember the last time I got a whole weekend off."

Kara groans at that. "You're one lucky man. I'm jealous."

"That bad?" he asks.

"There's a new case," she explains, "I've been pulling doubles all week."

"I know that's a lot to ask from you, but please try to stay out of my ER this weekend."

The agent gives him a look, considering her answer. "No promises," she smirks and doesn't hold back a laugh, when Mon-El groans in a similar manner she did a minute earlier.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story has been getting some serious love, which makes me really happy and really excited to share more with all of you. Thanks guys! ❤

He hasn't seen her in a month. That must be some kind of record. But he can't be disappointed about it, can he? The fact he hasn't seen her means she hasn't gotten herself hurt enough to need an ER during that month. (Although knowing her, he can't actually be sure about that; he can only be sure that she hasn't needed the ER he works at.)

He doesn't think about her _much_ , if he's being honest. It's not like there's anything going on between them, or that he's treated her enough times she has become some sort of a regular to him, or that the last time he saw her she stood by his side – quite literally – while he had a mild breakdown. So no, she doesn't really cross his mind. But every now and then, when he hears about thirty-something-year-old patients or federal agents or sees pretty blondes wandering around the hospital, he can't help that she pops up in his head.  
  
Currently, he's sitting in the break room, a slumped figure carelessly lying on the old couch that has definitely seen better days. He's got his phone in his hand, a crinkle of concentration between his brows, and when Winn walks in, Mon-El doesn't even notice.

"Hey, buddy, what are you looking at?" he asks only to be ignored. "Mon-El, hey!" He throws a pen at the oblivious face.

"What?" gray eyes widen in alarm.

"I asked what are you looking at?"

"Apartments," Mon-El says with a sigh. He locks his phone and drops it on his stomach. "I'm looking for a new place. I'm tired of driving for half an hour everyday to get here. I need a place that's closer to the hospital."

"How is that going so far?" Winn sits down beside him, opening a package of candy and offering it to his friend.

"Terribly."

"You could ask Eve for help. She found us a place in less than a week when we decided to live together last month."

"You sure?" Mon-El gives him an uncertain look, slowly munching on a gummy bear. "I mean, I don't wanna be a bother to her. I'm sure I'll find something eventually."

"Nonsense," Winn shakes his head. He throws a red bear in the air and catches it in his mouth with practised ease. "You're my best friend. She'd love to help out."

"Yeah, okay, I'll ask her. When does she come in?"

He glances at the clock hung on the opposite wall. "I'm supposed to go pick her up on my break. Fuck. I'm already late." Winn stands up, shoving the candy package into Mon-El's hands before heading for the door. "You know what?" He stalls for a second. "I'll talk to her on the way here. Don't worry about it. I got you covered," and with that he steps out, leaving his friend alone again.

Mon-El stays there, thoughts of a certain blonde still circling around in his head. There's the house problem, the fact he hasn't eaten since breakfast and the sweets are upsetting his empty stomach more than tricking it, a couple of unanswered calls from his mom, a job offer from the other side of the country he should be considering but hasn't bothered to yet, but somewhere in all that mess, there's Kara too. And he can't understand why that is, or when she started slipping into his mind uninvited and out of nowhere, or how she belongs to the list of important things to think about now, but she's awfully present and he can't pretend he doesn't like it.

He's wanted to ask her out for a while — truth be told. He doesn't know how that could work, though. Because she isn't a woman he randomly met somewhere and hasn't gathered the courage to approach. She's a patient who stumbles into the ER every once in a while, and if that isn't the most inappropriate of situations to ask a girl out, then he doesn't know what is. Plus, he never sees her outside the hospital, so the circumstances are never different; he's always the doctor and she's the patient. Thus it's always inappropriate.

His pager beeps and Mon-El groans at the sound, looking dolefully at the clock and the ten minutes left of his break he won't get to enjoy. Then his eyes lower to the small screen, checking where he's needed before jumping to his feet.

The moment he exits the break room, he's ready to get back to work. What he isn't ready for, however, is to be swept right into chaos. "What the hell happened?" he wonders out loud as a group of doctors and nurses run past him wheeling a bed toward the elevators, the patient on top of it a stable but bloody blur.

"Dr. Matthews! You're needed in Trauma 4," the head nurse calls out to him, a look of relief flashing across her face as soon as she spots him.

"I just got paged to Trauma 2," he tells her, briefly glancing at the doors the paramedics bring people in through, seeing more stretchers and more patients coming in.

"There's a code blue in 4," she simply states and he's running away before she's even finished her sentence.

They save the woman in Trauma 4 and he stabilizes the one is Trauma 2 before he sends her up to surgery. A third patient goes up to recovery. A fourth goes down the hall for further testing. There's one more he needs to check on soon, but a resident and the nurses are handling it for now, so Mon-El uses that little time granted to take a breath and calm himself down. It's gotten too crazy too fast and he's left with a hyped mind and adrenaline-filled veins. But if he's being honest, this is the kind of shift he lives for. Getting high on steady heartbeats and the knowledge he's snatched yet another life away from Hades' doorstep.

His pager beeps again, disrupting his break once more, but this time he doesn't groan. He merely takes a deep breath in and jogs to the other side of the hallway where Exam 1 is located.

"Hello," he says as he walks in and grabs a pair of gloves to pull on. "I'm Dr. Matth-" he begins to introduce himself but stops short when he sees the patient. "Again? What's happened now?"

"Don't start," Kara pulls a face at him, "I'm already in for an earful from my sister, I don't need one from you too."

"Maybe you do," he replies and the glare he gets in response doesn't deter him in the slightest. "You're here every other week, it seems," a frown tugs at the corners of his lips, "if I were her, I'd be worried too. In fact, I kind of am."

"Aw," she coos mockingly, "you worry about me? That's cute."

Mon-El's brows furrow and his jaw clenches. The words have a bite to them he wasn't prepared for — it matches the sharpness in the blue of her eyes. "Are you okay?" he asks, aware that the answer should be obvious given the fact they're in an ER, but he hopes she will understand it isn't the physical aspect he's wondering about at the moment.

At the question, her gaze softens. "Sorry," the agent says, her tone bashful. "That was rude. I'm sorry. It's been a rough day, and as hard as that may be to believe, I don't particularly like it when a mission ends with me sitting on a hospital bed."

He nods and grabs her chart to check over, silently approaching her. "It's okay. Don't worry about it." He takes a look at the bloody bandages on her legs, connecting what he's reading with what he's seeing, before replacing the chart with a tablet a nurse has already left for him to find. Normally, he'd be hearing about injuries, labs and symptoms from said nurse, but given the fact there's been a big accident and they're all spread a little too thin trying to manage a full ER, he does what he can with what he has.

"It's busy, today," Kara almost mumbles, though Mon-El doesn't know if that's her lousy attempt at smalltalk or if it's the best she can do on a rough day, as she called it.

"There was an accident on the highway," he explains.

"I know. I was there."

"What?" his eyes widen a bit. "What do you mean?"

"Car chase," she mumbles again, head leaning back to rest on the fluffy pillow. "Bastard stole a cop's car and made us chase him for ten minutes. I don't even know how many crashes he caused before he collided with a truck. Then he tried to make a run for it. He shot two cops and a fed, and when the police and the FBI surrounded him, he tried to take a woman hostage and use her as leverage."

"Wow," he whispers, more shocked than impressed, and curses under his breath right after, looking at one of the biggest gashes across Kara's thigh. "This looks bad," he presses the bandage back on it and pulls the prepared suture tray near. "It needs stitches. How did you get it?"

"I'm the fed who got shot," her voice is steady when she says it, but it doesn't soften the impact of her words, "more like shot _at_ ," she corrects herself, "my bad."

"Danvers," he starts and she shakes her head, not letting him speak.

"I know, Matthews, it sounds bad, but I've been trained for this kind of thing." Her eyelids are heavy and he can see it, but she straightens her back and inhales deeply, trying to shake the drowsiness off. "The bullet didn't even hit me, it's just a graze as you can see."

"A nasty one." She shrugs a shoulder, as if shrugging the remark off along with his concern. "And the others?" he asks.

"Fell on broken glass."

He checks all of her "grazes", notes which need stitches and which simply have to be cleaned and bandaged. The questions continue, the straight answers not so much, but Mon-El continues to work on her and watching her and going to great lengths to be a little extra (extra careful, extra gentle, extra kind, extra caring, extra friendly, extra...).

"All done," he says when he's finished stitching her up and a crooked smile appears on his face.

"These better not leave ugly scars or else I'm blaming you," Kara inspects his work, fingers tracing the intricate patterns.

"Wow, straight to the point, huh?" His eyes glint with mischief. "Am I going to get a thank you, at least, or is that too much to ask?"

"You'll get a thank you if you help me get out of here and my sister never finds out I was here in the first place."

"That can be arranged," he nods seriously, offering a hand to help her up.

"I was joking," she clarifies but there's a smile dancing at the ends of her mouth. "I mean, I would very much like to avoid that earful from Alex, but your job here is done. You've done more than enough." Slowly, she stands on her feet and grimaces when the stitched skin gets pulled and shoots pangs of pain all over her legs.

"Sit back down," he instructs and, when she rolls her eyes at him, he shakes his head in amused disbelief. "You're going to be sore for a few days."

"I can imagine a dozen different scenarios where a guy says that to me, but none of them involve a hospital bed."

Mon-El laughs. "You're saying you're fantasizing about me, Danvers? That's quite forward of you." The laugh turns into his trademark smirk. "And a dozen different scenarios? Ohhh."

"Honey, please, I said 'a guy'. If I wanted you, I would've had you already," a hand lifts up to his face and cups his cheek, stealing his breath away with that simple touch.

"Oh really? What makes you so sure?" he plays along nonetheless.

"If me coming here in various stages of messed up and with blood all over me doesn't do it for you, then I honestly don't know what will."

She says that with such a serious face that it's hard for him to keep his own straight and continue their little game. A chuckle ripples past his lips, as hard as he fights it, before he rests both of his hands on her shoulders and lowers her back on the bed. "I'm not done with you, yet."

"Is that a promise?" she dares him, all smugness and confidence.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he responds in kind.

They have every intention of carrying the flirting out, as they often do, but a nurse comes in and puts an end to it all. Mon-El takes a step back, his features twisting into a passive mask, and Kara lowers her gaze to her intertwined fingers atop her lap. It's like their little bubble has burst and they can't figure out what to do with themselves fast enough.

Eve looks at them both, her curiosity evident in the way she clears her throat and carefully studies the pair. "Dr. Matthews, is there anything I can help you with?" she asks, her voice not quite flat or bleak.

"Uh, sure," he glances at her, "would you mind preparing Ms. Danvers' discharge papers?"

"Of course," she nods, "I'll be right back."

"Isn't that the nurse who started calling me 'your fed'?" Kara asks once the door closes and they're alone again.

Mon-El groans. "You've heard that?" His hands lift up to his face, covering the blush spreading across his cheeks.

"She's not exactly discreet," the blonde points out.

"No. She's definitely not."

"Can you keep a secret?" Her fingers pry his own away from his eyes so she can see him. He hums and nods, which makes her grin in return. "I kinda like it."

And there she goes again, leaving him breathless without even trying. "Let's get this over with so you can go home and hopefully not step foot into my ER for another month." He means that. There's a tiny, conflicted voice in his head, though, that screams at him to make a move, because who knows when the next time he sees her will be, and he'll probably have missed his chance by then.

"It's really been a month? You counted?"

He shrugs, trying to mask his embarrassment. "I wanted to see how long you'd last away from me this time."

The blonde ignores the last bit and lets a displeased sound out. "And here I was thinking you'd missed me," she feigns disappointment.

"Maybe I did," he says in a low tone, all mystery and innuendos, trying to salvage the little pride he's got left by messing with her head too. He already knows he can't do anything more while they're still in the hospital, but he needs to give her something to keep her interested. Something to make her think of him as much as he's been thinking of her. At the very least, it's worth a try, right?

Kara doesn't make another comment. She stands up, swallowing her discomfort this time, letting a hand brush along his arm while her gaze is diverted elsewhere. She knows he notices, though, because his breath hitches and she's close enough to hear it. She walks to the door, having seen her nurse standing right outside, as if she knew not to barge in on them again, and turns around to look at him at the last minute. "Hey, Matthews?" His gray eyes find hers and her head tilts slightly to the side — a soft and open expression slips down her features. "Maybe I missed you too."

And with that, she's out the door. And with that, he's done for.


	4. Chapter 4

Winn was right; Eve is the best person Mon-El could've asked for help finding a new apartment. He spends a few days checking out various places she's picked and sent him links to, another few trying to decide which one would work better for him, but three weeks later, he's already signed a lease and started moving in. The building is only a ten-minute walk away from the hospital, has a functional elevator (opposed to the previous one where he lived) and it's fairly quiet, which is a blessing when he has to move his sleeping schedule to fit around his late shifts and ends up going to bed when the rest of the world is getting out of it.

Using the subway during the morning rush is generally not something Mon-El is inclined to. But after sixteen hours of working, it sounds even more appalling. Never mind the fact he's practically dead on his feet, he still won't put himself through that. So he decides to walk home instead, like he does more often than not nowadays, and even stops by a coffee shop on his way, when he sees that it's not overly crowded.

It's barely past eight by the time he's reached his floor, and despite the new dose of caffeine running in his veins, he isn't sure he's got enough energy to spare for a shower. Nonetheless, as he's stepping out of the elevator, he contemplates whether he can squeeze a quick breakfast in those ten minutes of awareness he has left as well — go big or go home (or something).

A hand is weaving through his hair, eyes distracted by a text on his phone, and naturally, Mon-El is not paying attention to where he's going. Thus just as naturally, he bumps into someone, who probably wasn't looking where they were going either.

"Hey! Watch it!" a female voice yells at him and he lifts his gaze to see a pair of – very familiar – blue eyes glaring at him, angry and icy and sharp.

He recognizes her immediately — how could he not? "Sorry," he mutters, "I was just," he begins to explain, an instant apology already on its way out, but the last bit of his sentence fades away along with her frustration.

Kara's stance relaxes, her tensed jaw easing into a barely-there smile. "Matthews," she greets, surprise echoing through her tone. "I didn't expect to see you here. I'm more used to seeing you in hospital rooms."

"I could say the same about you."

She nods, because he's right and they both know it, and takes a good look at him. "Do you live here or...?" she motions at the keys in his hand.

"I do," he tells her, eyes darting to the door of his apartment, which is only a few feet away. "4B," he points at it, "that's me."

The agent glances behind her, mindlessly following his lead. "You're kidding."

"No," he chuckles at her disbelief. "I moved here about a week ago."

"Ah. The new neighbor. Right. I heard about that."

"What? Am I, like, the talk of the floor?" he perks up a bit, the expected arrogance shining through.

"More like the talk of the whole damn building," the blonde scoffs. "Apparently, you're a mystery everyone wants to know more about."

"A mystery? Why?"

"Nobody's seen you since you moved. There have been speculations going around," she says and a thoughtful expression dawns on her face. "Right now, Christina from 2B is the frontrunner, I think. She said you're a drug dealer." She responds to his raised brow with a shrug of her shoulder and continues: "Three days ago you were a bartender. And before that, an army guy or something."

"Where did those even come from? A drug dealer? Seriously?"

"Don't look at me," Kara's hands raise in an innocent gesture. "I wasn't the one who said it. In fact, I bet against it. My money's on the bartender theory."

"Yeah. 'Cause that makes more sense," Mon-El scorns. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, his weariness not dulled by the surprising presence of his company.

"You work nights and nobody's properly met you, yet. It makes sense just fine."

"Well, you've met me now, haven't you? What do you think?" he motions at himself, "do I look like a drug dealer or a bartender?"

She eyes him thoroughly, pretending to contemplate her answer. There's a barely withheld smile across her lips, which owns his attention effortlessly. "You don't. You look like crap, though."

Mon-El winces at that, as if the words physically hurt him. "Thanks, Danvers," he pretends to be upset, but he knows she sees right through him.

"I didn't mean it like that," she hits his shoulder gently. "I meant that you look tired."

"Tired," he repeats, "yeah, definitely," and agrees with a loud exhale.

Kara offers him a sympathetic look. "You just came back from work?"

A nod is given in response. "And you're going to work," he says, a questioning tilt in his voice.

"Yep. Which reminds me," she glances at her phone, "I'm running late. I gotta go. It was nice seeing you, though."

"You too," he replies, watching her start to walk away.

"Get some sleep!" she throws behind her shoulder, before turning the corner and disappearing out of sight. "Zombies aren't supposed to be out before Halloween!"

And with that, Kara steps into the elevator while Mon-El remains stuck on the spot for a few more moments. His head shakes slightly, his chest trembles with a soft laugh and he finally moves too. His mind is a little too foggy to fully register what just happened, but he's still stunned and pleasantly surprised. And even though he's pretty sure the blonde didn't tell him where she lives, he knows she lives somewhere in the same building as him.

Isn't that just the best coincidence? Mon-El definitely thinks it is.

* * *

The sky is darkening by the time Mon-El wakes up, hungry and disoriented and reluctant to get out of bed. He needs to make something for dinner, but he hasn't gone grocery shopping since he moved in, so there's nothing in the kitchen. And going out is out of the question at the moment — he spent long enough just to convince himself to leave his bedroom.

He stumbles into the living room with dripping hair and no shirt, blindly searching for his phone. It probably would've been wiser to turn the lights on, but his eyes are having a hard time staying open as it is, thus he dismisses the thought at first. After the third failed attempt to locate the device and bumping on the coffee table as well as the couch, however, he knows he won't find it in the dark.

He switches the lights on and finds the phone, but it takes some more time for his gaze to wander toward the door. There's a piece of paper on the floor there, just a few inches inside, and he can't remember carrying any papers when he came home earlier. So it can't be something he dropped and didn't notice.

He goes to pick it up, eyeing it curiously, and reads it out loud. "Hey, neighbor. I knocked but you didn't answer, so you must still be sleeping. I don't know if you're working again tonight, but if not, come over for dinner. I'm ordering pizza. Danvers," it says, and a little lower, as if she'd forgotten about it and only remembered to include it at the last minute, she's written a time and the number of her apartment: 8pm. 4A.

Mon-El checks the time and immediately sprints back to his bedroom. It's ten minutes past eight, so he gets dressed quickly, runs a hand through his still-wet hair and is out the door in less than five minutes. He doesn't allow himself to overthink the invitation, doesn't know if it's as simple as it sounds or hinting at something more. It doesn't matter either way. Because now he knows he'll get his chance at some point, given the fact Kara lives right across from him.

That's the only thing he focuses on and the edges of his mouth lift into a smile. With a deep breath, Mon-El knocks on Kara's door and waits for her to answer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know how these two suckers snuck up on me and wrote themselves in this chapter. This is not what I had planned... But I bet you're all gonna love it.

Winn said it was only going to be the two of them. He said they'd only have a couple of drinks and call it a night. He said there was a quiet, little place he'd wanted to check out for a while and that was their chance. But as Mon-El quickly figured out, Winn was a liar.  
  
The bar his friend dragged him to is nothing big or overcrowded, but it's busy enough for a Friday night. And, of course, the two-drink promise is ruled out as soon as they take a seat. By the time Eve shows up with some of her friends from work, they're already tipsy on beer. The tequila shots start when Olsen joins them, who has brought some friends along too, and before Mon-El has realized what a big – and drunk as hell – group they've become, half of the hospital staff seems to be there with them.  
  
It's nice for the most part; the conversation is flowing as well as the alcohol is, the music isn't loud enough to muffle all the voices and Mon-El is having a good time. The insistent buzz in his head hinted at dizziness a while ago, thus he's replaced tequila (or was it whiskey at this point?) with simple water. And while his senses are slowly coming back to him and sobriety seems tangible, he's not quite there yet — not by a long shot.  
  
He wants to leave. That's what he keeps thinking. He's pretty sure he can't even walk to the door, though, let alone the whole way back to his apartment building. Midnight comes and goes, his drunkenness ever so present, until Mon-El finally convinces his uncoordinated muscles to move. Surprisingly, the moment he stands up, most of the others do too. It's like they were all ready to head out, but they were expecting someone to go first. Winn is worse off than he is, so Mon-El makes sure Eve is sober enough to drive, before bidding the rest goodbye and turning to leave.  
  
"Wait!" a voice calls out, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't think he's the one being spoken to. But then an arm snakes around his waist, stopping him and steadying him simultaneously, succeeding in earning his attention at last.  
  
"Danvers," he mumbles, his hazy eyes finding her clear ones. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I've been here for a while. I guess you were too out of it to notice." She retracts her arm but doesn't return it to her side, opting to wrap her hand loosely around his wrist instead.  
  
"I always notice when it's you," he says, both his tone and expression flooded by genuine confusion. Perhaps there's a bit of disappointment in there too.  
  
"Not this time," she replies and her thumb moves in a slow caress across his skin. "You're plastered, aren't you?"  
  
It's mostly a rhetorical question, but he nods in response nonetheless. His gaze fleets to their joined hands briefly, the contact making him even more confused, but he doesn't have the words to voice it.  
  
"Do you have anyone to take you home?"  
  
"I was gonna call a cab," there's a slur in his voice, which results in a grimace.  
  
"Come on, then. I'm driving," Kara tugs gently at his hand, enough to prompt him but not to make him lose his balance. Mon-El has half a mind to start protesting, saying that he'll be okay and that she doesn't have to worry about him, but the blonde cuts him off with a humorous huff and a shake of her head. "Shut up, you're the one doing me a favor, I've been looking for an excuse to leave for the past hour."  
  
"Okay," he agrees and glances at their hands again, missing her touch now that she's no longer holding his wrist.  
  
"Just give me a minute to tell my sister I'm leaving."  
  
He watches her jog to the surgeon, feeling embarrassed when brown eyes fall upon him. He doesn't hold Alex's gaze, but he can sense the way she's scrutinizing him from afar. Perhaps Kara hasn't told her he lives across from her now, otherwise he can't imagine why he could be at the receiving end of such a piercing look. Unless she's found out about all the times he's treated her sister, but caved to Kara's wishes about not letting it be known by the redhead. In that case, he's probably already dead but doesn't know it yet.  
  
"Let's go," Kara tells him when she walks back, her arm once again twisting its way around his waist. He isn't sure if it's an excuse to touch him again or simply a steadying hold because of his less-than-sober state, but he hopes for the first. Maybe it's the alcohol talking or maybe it's his own wishful thinking. Either way, he doesn't care. He just focuses on the warmth spreading across the parts of skin she's almost touching (damned clothes!) and allows her to guide him out of the bar and toward wherever her car is parked.  
  
He's not that far gone; he knows he isn't. But Mon-El plays the part, because it allows him to stare at Kara for as long as his uninhibited heart craves it. He slumps down on the passenger seat, silently waiting for her to sit next to him and leans his head on the window. The bright lights of the city are harsh on his sensitive eyes, so he groans, perhaps a little too loudly, and turns toward Kara, partially feigning his discomfort.  
  
The ride isn't long, only lasting a few minutes, thus he makes the most of the time he's got. He lets his gaze take her in — from the bright red lipstick on her lips, to the faint blush across her cheeks, to the vibrant blue of her eyes. She's focused on the road, so he doesn't think she can sense him staring. She catches him though, more than once, and Mon-El pretends he's just avoiding the street lights.  
  
Kara doesn't talk on the way to their apartment building. She steals glances at him, but she doesn't say a word. And Mon-El tries to stay silent too, at least at first, but he has some words of his own and they're almost choking him the more he's swallowing them down. His mind keeps going back a few nights ago, when he was invited over to her place, and the questioning marks are almost visible dancing in circles above his head.  
  
"We're almost there," the blonde assures him when he stumbles out of the car once it's parked and quickly runs around the vehicle to steady him. "You're not gonna throw up all over yourself, are you?"  
  
"No," he shakes his head and immediately regrets it when dizziness hits him afresh. The question diverts his focus, however, and suddenly he realizes he does feel nauseous.  
  
"Come on, big guy. Let's get you home and in bed, 'cause if you fall on your ass, I'm not picking you up."  
  
"I can handle myself," Mon-El tries to respond — emphasis on 'tries'. It's more of a mumble mixed with a slur hinting at a whine.  
  
They step into the elevator, its motions and sounds only adding to his discomfort and a miserable 'fuck' escapes him. Kara laughs and doesn't bother to cover it when she receives a half-hearted glare. "You're a mess," she says, no real bite in those three syllables, and stands closer to Mon-El to rub his back.  
  
"Too much?" he looks at her with a pair of vulnerable eyes, the gray hazy yet clear enough to betray his emotions at the same time.  
  
"What do you mean?" she wonders.  
  
"The mess," he says, "is it too much? Do you still like me?"  
  
"Matthews."  
  
"I just, I'm sorry," his head turns away from her, a blush crawling its way from his neck up to his cheeks to the tips of his ears. "I'm drunk."  
  
"I can tell," she strokes a thumb at his side, absentmindedly continuing to offer comforting touches.  
  
"But you like me. Right?" he continues, because he really can't help it. "That's why you invited me over the other night. I keep thinking about it and trying to convince myself it was nothing, but there was more to it, wasn't there?"  
  
Kara studies him for a second, delaying her answer. Her brows furrow, her arm withdraws and the surprise on her face can't be mistaken. "That's a lot of words and a lot of assumptions for someone who slured his way through half a sentence just a minute earlier," she says.  
  
In response, Mon-El groans, a hand lifting up to rub at his face. "You're driving me crazy," he whines, not looking at her once again. "Is this just a game to you? 'Cause I'm too drunk to play right now. I just want a straight answer."  
  
"Even if I give you one, you won't remember it tomorrow."  
  
He shrugs a shoulder like it doesn't matter, despite the fact they both know it makes all the difference. He doesn't tell her that's exactly why he's asking, nor that he wouldn't have the courage to start this particular conversation otherwise. He simply accepts her silence, unable to pry a desirable response, and follows her out of the elevator the moment the door slides open.  
  
It's all a blurry mess of barely comprehensible words and miserable moans and unsteady steps after that. Somehow, Kara unlocks his apartment door and leads him to his bedroom, even though she has never seen his place before, and Mon-El is too focused on the sensation of her hand slipping into his back pocket to register anything else. There's a part of his brain that understands she only did it to grab his keys, but the lingering sensation of her hand on his ass is too much for his intoxicated state to entertain the more reasonable approach.  
  
He falls on the mattress with a sigh, not even sure he's sat properly and won't slide down on the floor with one wrong movement. The blonde helps him take his jacket off, but he doesn't let her do anything else. Embarrassment and awkwardness catch up to him and he already knows he's going to hate himself in the morning. Let alone the fact he won't be able to look at Kara in the eyes after the stunt he's pulled tonight.  
  
"I don't know why you're doing this," he says, watching her lay his jacket at the foot of his bed with such care, a stark contrast to the wrinkled ball he threw aside seconds ago. "I'm not even your friend."  
  
"You're my neighbor," she offers a charming smile, "and occasionally my doctor. How's that for an explanation?"  
  
There's a lack of teasing and intensity as she regards him, giving way to calmness and gentleness. And honestly, Mon-El doesn't need much to be dismantled by her. So he can feel his heart missing beats out of excitement and his fingers tingling with a yearning he can't restrain, all the while his mind is fighting to enforce some sense of control upon his haywire body. "I could be more," he tells her, every attempt to bite the words back failing epically.  
  
Kara laughs and her face turns away for a moment. Then the grin slides down and so does she. "I know. And that's the problem." She sits right next to him, thighs touching and gazes locking.  
  
Mon-El frowns, despite the satisfaction of having her so close. "I'm a problem?"  
  
"No, not you. My relationship with you," she explains, a tentative hand rising to touch his cheek. "I know it could become something more and that scares me."  
  
"Why?"  
  
She doesn't respond to that, doesn't have the words. But Mon-El leans into her touch, pliant and only half-aware of himself and the current situation they're in. Thus when her eyes flicker down to his mouth, he stays still and awaits her next move, making it even harder for Kara to pull away. "You won't remember this tomorrow," she whispers, mostly to convince herself, "you won't remember any of it," and she slowly leans in, her lips brushing against his but not daring to kiss. The feeling is soft yet greedy, stealing her breath and screaming at her to do it. She wants to, that's certain, but she still hesitates.  
  
Mon-El lets a trembling breath out. The smell of alcohol hits Kara like icy water, snatching her out of her daze in an abrupt and violent manner. "You won't remember but I will," she sighs and presses her lips against the corner of his mouth instead. "We can't do this when you're drunk," a hand coaxes him to lie down with a gentle push and he's so obviously lost she doesn't regret stopping before kissing him.  
  
"Kara?" he calls out, voice quiet and uncertain.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
He takes a moment to respond, his body wiggling and struggling to find a comfortable position, with his legs still mostly off the mattress and the blonde taking up half the space on his bed. "I like you too," comes out in a mumble, his eyelids dropping shut before all the words are said.  
  
A smile is her instantaneous reaction, which she doesn't withhold now that he can't see it. With careful movements, she stands off the bed and hovers over him to brush some hair away from his forehead. "Damn you, Matthews," she says with a deep exhale and straightens up again.  
  
She leaves then, but only to fill a glass with water and search in his kitchen cabinets for some painkillers. Once she's got both, Kara walks back in Mon-El's bedroom and puts them on his bedside table for him to find when he wakes up. She should probably find a bucket to leave beside the bed in case he gets sick later, but the thought of rummaging through his house while he's sleeping makes her more uncomfortable than the thought of him making a mess in the wrong room. In the end, she decides she's done enough and simply lifts the covers up to his shoulders before checking him over one last time.  
  
"Goodnight, Michael," she says to his sleeping form and has already turned to leave when she hears him speak.  
  
"It's Mon-El."  
  
"What?" she pauses on the spot, looking behind her shoulder.  
  
"Everyone calls me Mon-El," he rasps out and shifts to his side, falling back asleep.  
  
Kara walks to her own apartment at last, confused and amused at the same time. She's never called him anything but Matthews, she realizes, and the only reason she knows his full name is because it's written on the name tag he always has clipped on his scrubs. It's a great thing, isn't it? To have _almost_ kissed someone she didn't even know the right name to call him. Even so, she tries it, tests it on her tongue alone in her apartment, and by the time she falls asleep too, she's decided it suits him best.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahahahahahahahaha you don't even know what's coming 😂😂😂😂😂😂
> 
> On a more serious note though, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE KUDOS AND THE COMMENTS YOU GUYS ARE GIFTING ME ON EACH CHAPTER!! You surely know how to make a girl happy 😁❤

He remembers. _Fuck. He remembers_. It's a little hazy and blurry and confusing, and he wakes up with only a vague understanding of it all, but he remembers. From Kara's arm around his waist, to her caring tone, to her gentle touches, to her patient eyes, to the hesitant brush of her lips against his own; from start to finish, missing a few puzzle pieces indeed, the previous night comes back to him bit by bit.

The morning has passed him by — it's already noon when Mon-El stumbles out of his bed, barely reaching the bathroom in time to empty the contents of his stomach. Within the hour, though, despite his hangover and the blank spots in his memories, he's decided he made such a fool of himself that his embarrassment is a greater discomfort than any sickly unease or alcohol-indused headache. Now, he just has to figure out a way to look at Kara without turning bright red with shame, so he can apologize for being a drunk pain in the ass.

He doesn't know when he'll see her again, but he's already freaking out at the prospect of it. What will he tell her? What does she think of him? Has he ruined everything? There wasn't much to begin with, just some barely acknowledged attraction and too much playful flirting, but Mon-El doesn't want to lose it, however insignificant it might appear as. Especially after that almost-kiss, which he isn't sure he'll actually acknowledge, at least until _she_ does.

Glancing at his phone, Mon-El sees he still has more than two hours until he has to leave for work. Thus, even though he's already put his scrubs pants on, he picks an old gray t-shirt for a top and heads for the kitchen. Kara eats a lot; he learned that the night they had pizza together. So food could definitely gain him some positive points along with his apology. He doesn't know which is her favorite dish, they haven't reached _that_ point yet, but after taking a minute to consider his options, he pulls a pot out of a cabinet and starts cooking.

To his utter surprise, as soon he turns the stove off, the doorbell rings and startles him out of his continuously racing thoughts. He hopes it isn't Kara, he's still too embarrassed to be ready to face her, but at the same time, his fingers tingle with excitement nonetheless and he rushes to open the door. Their gazes meet immediately, her blue as vivid as he can remember it being the previous night. But his surprise doesn't stop that shameful blush from spreading across his face.

"Hey," she speaks first, her soft smile matching her tone.

"Danvers. Hi."

"Sorry, is this a bad time?" She takes him in, her eyes slipping from his face down to his feet before rising again. "I just wanted to check up on you. I had to run this morning and didn't get the chance, but I wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Uh," Mon-El gulps, "I'm okay," he says, "thanks for stopping by." A hand lifts up to rub the back of his neck in a typical nervous manner. "I'm sorry you had to put up with me last night and for anything stupid I might have said."

Kara chuckles in response. "Don't worry about it," she dismisses his worry, "there's nothing you should apologize for."

He nods, hardly relieved by her words, and takes a step aside. "Do you want to come in? I've got food," he bribes and revels in the way she lights up.

"Sure, I've got some time to spare. And I can never say no to free food."

"Yeah, I figured," he teases and lets an exaggerated gasp out when she pushes him away to step in his apartment. He follows her to the kitchen, which is literally four steps away, and gestures for her to take a seat. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but I was actually cooking for you."

The blonde raises a brow. "For me? Why?"

Shrugging a shoulder, Mon-El turns around to move the pot a few inches and onto the counter. "Had to repay you for yesterday's favor. I didn't know what you like though, so I just made mac and cheese," he says.

"Matthews, seriously," she replies with a sigh, "it was no problem. You've taken care of me so many times, why's it such a big deal that I did the same for once?"

"Because it's my job, it's different." He pivots to face her again.

"Look, I like to think that at this point you and I are becoming friends. And friends help each other, right?"

"Right," he agrees, his voice flat. He doesn't know what else to say, nor can he shake the bashful remnants of his stunt off, but his shoulders relax in response to her more comfortable stance. "Still," he ignores the warning look she throws him, "I was hoping you'd accept my apology late-lunch offer."

Kara doesn't comment and rolls her eyes at him instead. "Where do you put the plates?" She stands up and grabs one for each of them as soon as he points to the right cabinet. She proceeds to fill their plates while Mon-El sets the table, and if he's surprised by her ease and forwardness, he doesn't say anything.

When they're done eating and he outright refuses to let her help with the dirty dishes, the blonde sits down with a huff and takes a look around his home. She expected it to be more messy, he's a single guy who tends to work ridiculous hours, after all. However, he surprises her with how tidy and in-order everything appears to be. The only things she can notice being out of place are a pair of glasses thrown haphazardly on the couch and an opened book left on the coffee table.

"Matthews, is that Romeo and Juliet?" she asks, unable to muffle the laughter in her voice.

He doesn't turn to glance at her or the book she's referring to and simply continues wiping a plate dry. "What if it is?"

"I didn't peg you as someone who reads Shakespeare for fun."

He finishes his task quickly and joins her at the table again. "I have my moments," he tells her, a smirk spreading across his mouth, "I'm a romantic person at heart."

"I'm sure," she mocks back and his lit up phone interrupts whatever else she was going to say. Kara doesn't look at the screen and hands it to him, letting him answer the call as she buses herself looking at his name tag.

As neat as the rest of the house looks, it seems like the kitchen table is some sort of makeshift dumpster. His keys and bills and work things are all there; from that annoying flashlight to the pen usually tucked into his scrubs shirt pocket to his name tag to a gum packet. There's even a wrinkled receipt, which makes her think he probably just emptied his pockets on the table, until the next time he would need to grab everything again and throw them into a new set of pockets.

Mon-El's phone call is brief and he's hung up only a minute later. So Kara takes that as her cue to speak again: "what does 'E.' stand for?"

"Hmm? What 'E'?

"Michael E. Matthews," she taps the tag with her finger twice, "this 'E'."

"Emmanuel."

"Oh," comes out in a mumble and he can almost see her gears turning. "That's where Mon-El comes from! I've been trying to figure that out all day."

"Bingo!" he laughs.

"Wait," she throws him another perplexed look, "but why Mon-El? There has to be a story there, I've never heard the name before."

"It's really nothing special," he tries to brush it off, but the blonde doesn't let him.

"Can I hear it?" she says.

"Well, Michael was my father's name too, so my parents always called me by my middle name. But when I was two and could barely speak a coherent word, I introduced myself as Mon-El."

"Oh my goodness!" she squeals, a wide grin stretching her mouth.

"They tried to teach me to say it properly but I liked my version better. And as I grew older, I hated the name so much that I refused to use it. Eventually it just stuck."

"That's adorable!"

"I know, right?" There's a hint of pink on his cheeks. "Now you have to tell me something I don't know too," he says.

"Is that so?"

"Yep."

"Alright, let me think." Kara's lips purse, a dimple appearing beneath the bottom one. "Does it have to be something specific?"

"I'm not a picky guy," Mon-El leans back in his chair, "whatever you got, I'll take it."

"Whatever, huh?" He just smiles in response. "So, what if I told you," she pauses long enough to lean closer to him, "that last night," he groans in complain but doesn't interrupt her, "while you were too drunk and half-asleep," a hand reaches out in search of his, "all I could think about was how much I wanted to kiss you."

His gray eyes stare at her, surprised but pleased at the same time. "You did?" he asks, sounding breathless.

"Yeah," Kara starts to stand, her movements slow as she watches his reaction, not daring to look away even for the briefest of moments. "I did," she whispers.

"But you didn't kiss me," his hands reach for her as soon as she gets close enough. They grasp at her sides and guide her down on his lap.

"I almost did," she slips on his lap with an ease that surprises them both, but it isn't enough to break through their daze. "Do you remember?"

"I remember," he speaks against her lips, their faces so close now they're breathing the same air.

"Good," she smiles, "I wasn't sure how much longer I would be able to wait," and with that, she kisses him at last, all eagerness and hunger and curiosity.

Mon-El moans into her mouth, a hand squeezing her side while the other cups the back of her head, preventing her from straying away. Kara responds with a grip on his hair, pulling and soothing and guiding his face whichever way she wants to. The kiss is harsh and intense, draining the oxygen from their lungs but too impatient to wait until they've caught their breath again. And those two, they're a union of built-up sexual tension and a wild desperation they can't control or restrain anymore.

"You're killing me," he groans when she grinds on him, awakening his body in a way he wasn't expecting and definitely wasn't prepared for. "Slow down, Kara."

"Sorry," she breathes out, leaving a trail of soft pecks along his neck until she finds the perfect spot to bite and suck on. She didn't intend to mark him, but he's right there, handsome and worked up and completely hers for the taking, so she doesn't stop. After all, there's an intensity in the way their bodies crave each other and collide that can hardly be satisfied with a few kisses.

"How about we take this to the couch?" he suggests, using a hand to guide her face up again. He stares into her eyes, searching for any hint of regret or insecurity, but there's only excitement and lust there.

It doesn't take them more than a couple of minutes to actually stumble to the couch and fall against the cushions. Kara's silhouette is beneath Mon-El's this time, his left leg settling between both of her own. Her arms are wrapped around his neck, content with staying there for the time being, but his insatiable ones fail to find a resting place. He drags a palm from her thigh up to her hip, fingers sneaking into tight space to squeeze her ass, and Kara adjusts her position to make more room for him, asking for his touch without having to utter a single word or pull away from his mouth a single inch.

They devour each other with reckless abandon — there isn't any innocence or mindfulness left to hold them back. And when their shirts are pulled off, the fervor only grows stronger.

Mon-El can't get enough of her; he doesn't know where to look or which part of newly-exposed skin to touch first. She's overwhelming him, controlling him like a puppet, and if he can judge from the look in her eyes, Kara is fully aware of the fact. Thus when she gives him a nod of permission, he doesn't need anything more before lowering his mouth to her chest to get a taste of whatever she's willing to offer him.

"You're beautiful," he mumbles, toying with a breast, loving the way she arches her back in response. Her bra isn't off yet and he doesn't make a move to change that, however eager he might be.

"Sweet talk will get you nowhere," she teases, fingers moving from his chest to his happy trail to his hip. She isn't shy nor hesitant in her touches, which surprises Mon-El, but he only leans into it, needing more.

"I think it'll take me everywhere," is his reply and he returns to that spot above her collarbone that he's learned is one of her weaknesses. "Just gorgeous," he presses a kiss there, before grazing the skin with his teeth and soothing it with his tongue. She shivers at the feeling, proving him right and encouraging him to go lower and lower until he's mere inches above her waistband. "Kara?" he pauses to ask, too considerate now to make a more daring move.

She looks at him and he knows she wants to continue, her heavy breaths and flushed skin are enough of an indication. She offers a small shake of her head, nonetheless. "Maybe we should stop it here," there's a questioning tilt in her voice, as if she's uncertain of his reaction, but Mon-El simply nods and smiles at her.

He kisses her again, a thumb stroking her cheek as his lips press softly against hers. It's gentle now, still greedy but not as demanding. They know that they need to slow down, otherwise they won't be able to stop again.

"Mon-El?" she whispers and waits until she's got his attention. "You probably don't remember me saying this last night, but this still scares me."

He freezes at that. Confusion flashes across his features before his face softens and he's no longer hovering over her. He sits properly and gently prompts her to sit up too and slip on his lap like she did before. "I'll never ask you for anything you're not willing to give."

"I know, I just–" she looks away from him for a second. "I'm not ready to start a relationship or anything like that right now. And I'm the one who kissed you first, so I have to make that clear. If you're not okay with it, we need to stop."

"I'm okay with whatever you want," he says without even thinking about it.

"I want to kiss you again," she admits in a quiet voice, "but I don't want anything more."

"Then kiss me," he brushes her hair away from her face, mesmerized by her eyes and not afraid to show it when the shining blue is hidden from view. His hand caresses her neck and strokes her jaw with a feather-like touch she eases into. And then, slowly leaning in, they meet each other halfway and crash together once again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, back again...

Mon-El doesn't know what to think now that they've kissed. He mulls it over for the rest of the day after he and Kara part ways, carrying her in the back of his mind even when he's too busy at work, and occasionally smiling to himself, because her taste is still lingering on his lips hours later. Initially, he thought that, perhaps, the attraction and excitement would start to fade. After all, his physical cravings have been more than satisfied. But instead of easing into a dull nonchalance, Mon-El only starts yearning for more and having to tackle newfound desires.

It isn't like he is unwillingly crossing Kara's lines; he isn't thinking about relationships and commitment. He meant what he said — he'll never ask for more than she's willing to give. But the truth is he can't help but wonder what it would feel like to experience more than a few kisses with her. To see her every morning when she's still too tired and cursing at the sun for coming up. To hear her laugh when she's watching her favorite comedy. To watch her dance along to that song she swore she hated but can't not respond to the rhythm of. In reality, it isn't solely about attraction and lust, although there's a fair bit of those too. He simply wants to be closer to her and get to know her. There's just something about her that's drawing him in and he can't resist it.

It's funny when he thinks about it; they kissed and that's how their friendship started. They've been skirting around some sense of intimacy for a while, their frequent encounters only fueling the ever growing familiarity establishing itself between them, but it wasn't until they kissed that they began to feel more comfortable with each other. Steadily, as the days pass, he sees more of her and each day brings a new – but very much welcome – surprise.

Sometimes he catches her in the morning, when he's returning from his run or another late shift, and he's learned not to gamble on her mood during those early hours, for they're usually a mystery, lacking specific patterns. But she _always_ smiles at him the moment she sees him and he doesn't care if it's full or small or crooked — it's always genuine enough to mesmerize him. Other times they meet in the hallway, both coming or going, and she kisses his cheek when he tells her he likes what she's done with her hair. Then one of them asks what the other is doing later, and more often than not, they end up having a late dinner together on Kara's couch, Netflix playing on her TV although they're barely paying attention. Mon-El starts cooking more often and it's usually for two people, in spite of the fact he lives alone. Kara starts to navigate between her shifts and his own, so when he's pulling doubles, she tries to make some time to stop by the hospital and bring him food or a good coffee, even if for the sole purpose of keeping him away from that hideousness they're selling at the cafeteria. It's one little thing here and one little thing there and, somehow, they become tuned to each other and create habits they don't even notice at first.

Thus friendship comes easily enough and the two fall into it without restraints. Nonetheless, a certain boldness is still present. She bursts into his apartment one day, finding the door open and not bothering to knock beforehand. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail, her silhouette still clad in FBI gear and she barely mumbles a few words about a successful ambush, before grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and kissing him senseless. He feels adventurous on lazy evenings, when work is slow-going and Kara is feeling bored or lonely at home, asking him through text if he'd like to come over, and he can't resist her mouth when she gazes at him sinfully and bites her lip. She kisses him the first time she sees him with glasses on. He kisses her the first time she tears up watching a Disney movie. It's comfortable and easy and fun. They don't overthink it, they just do it, not bothering to give meaning to whatever nameless force is pulling them together.

Weeks go by like this, the two growing closer, waltzing around something deeper they don't really acknowledge. And that's how this particular night finds Mon-El, struggling to stay awake, but determined not to close his eyes. It's almost midnight and Kara hasn't replied to his texts since earlier in the afternoon, so he's started to worry. It isn't the first time she's gone MIA, nor the first she's left him hanging in the middle of a conversation, but never before has she stood him up after making plans with him; he's been pestering her to teach him a few moves ever since he saw her fighting one time she'd asked him to join her at the gym. And she promised she would meet him at the park a block away from their apartment building at seven. However, she never showed up.

He's buzzing with nerves and anxiety now, pacing across his living room. His skin is hot, exhaustion and worry weaving together and causing his body to flush as he calls her for the sixth time. She doesn't answer, but at least her phone isn't turned off this time. Another text is sent, another reply doesn't come, and Mon-El sits down, his leg bouncing furiously.

It's almost two in the morning when he heads to bed, having already spent an hour debating whether he should. He knows it won't be a restful sleep, but his alarm is set to go off in less than six hours, which means he has to call it a night at some point. With a dubious heart, his body settles under the covers and only shifts from side to side about a dozen times before his breath evens out at last.

* * *

Mon-El can't tell how long he's been asleep for when his phone starts buzzing with an incoming call. At first, his brain doesn't register the insistent disturbance, too deeply lulled in its silent dreamland. But the buzzing continues, shoving him into awareness until his eyes snap open and his hand grasps for the device.

"Kara," he gasps out, his voice croaky yet echoing with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Hey, sorry for waking you. I'm fine, I got stuck at work. I didn't mean to worry you."

"It's okay," he sits up, a palm rubbing one eye, "as long as you're safe."

"I'm safe," she says and he can hear the smile behind her tone. There's a thud in the background, which makes him think she's pushed the car door shut, and although his senses are still rousing, he doesn't miss the wince that escapes her.

"What was that?" he asks, his body straightening in alert. "Are you hurt?"

The blonde sighs and takes a moment to respond, probably searching for an excuse to cover up her slip. "It's nothing," she attempts to dismiss it, vainly so.

"Where are you? Are you home? Can you drive? Do you need me to come get you?" Mon-El is already out of the bed and looking for his shoes before she gets a chance to answer.

"No, no, Mon-El, calm down. I'm almost home. I'm in the elevator."

"Can I–" he stops, suddenly frozen. All the worry built up within him crashes down on him again at once. "Can I see you?" It's a question, but it sounds more like a plead and he doesn't move until Kara speaks.

"I'm outside your door," she says after a second. It's unclear whom the words are a bigger relief to.

With a quick stride, Mon-El pulls the door open and finds her leaning against the opposite wall. Her eyes are tired, her shoulders slumped, but when she sees him, she offers one of her usual smiles. "What happened?" is the first thing he says, hands rising to hold Kara's face.

"Long day," she mumbles, letting him inspect the small cut above her left eyebrow.

"I can see that," his gray meets her blue, the intensity of his storm contradicting the haziness of her ocean.

A frown tugs at the corners of his lips, but she doesn't have a way to comfort him at the moment. Moreover, she's in such a dire need of comfort herself, that it's hard to think of anything past her own desperation. With a shallow exhale, the blonde falls into him, arms clinging to his back like she fears he'll push her away. He doesn't, of course, and wraps her in a tight embrace instead.

"I'm sorry, I just need a minute like this," she speaks with her face pressed into his shoulder, the words muffled but comprehensible enough.

"Don't apologize, I'm not going anywhere," he whispers back and only squeezes her in his hold, making no attempt to move or let go of her. That squeeze is the wrong move, though; Kara lets another wince out, her muscles tightening, and Mon-El tenses up in concern once more. "What's wrong?"

"Sorry, I just," she begins to pull away, "you pressed on a bruise."

That earns her a serious look from the doctor. "You're hurt," he states, not leaving any room for arguments.

"Hardly," the agent replies, even if she knows he won't believe her.

"Can I see?"

"Can we go inside first?"

"Okay," he agrees with a nod, eyeing her carefully as well as a little suspiciously.

Kara unlocks her door while Mon-El shuts his own after grabbing his keys. She doesn't turn her head to check where he is, she can sense him walking a step behind her. And when they reach the couch, she doesn't have to ask before he sits right beside her.

"Don't freak out." Her body shifts until her back is resting against the cushions.

"I don't know why you think saying that is going to make things better," standing up again, he helps her lift her legs up on the couch. Then he reaches for her shoes and slides them off.

Kara simply watches him, too used to letting him take care for her by now to express any sign of protest. "Maybe because you tend to get _a little_ hyperbolic sometimes?" she replies to his question with a derisive tone. "I'm just saying."

His eyes roll and he sits down again. "You're just as bad here as when you're in the ER," the words are quiet, complementing the slow motions of his hands as he lifts her shirt up to expose her ribs. The bruise is right there on the left side, but it covers more muscle than bones — fortunately. "How did you get this?"

"You don't wanna know," she mutters, head leaning back on the arm of the couch.

"What if I do?"

"It's just work, Matthews. You know how it is. Sometimes things get a little rough out there."

"We're back to last names now?" His brow quirks, failing to hide the underlying insecurity.

"No, but I still like calling you that sometimes." Kara's expression softens, her fingers reaching for his hand. When Mon-El reaches back, she takes that as permission to pull him closer.

It's a tight fit, that much is true, but Mon-El doesn't stop her. There's always been a certain openess to her, to the way she's acted around him, yet he's never seen the kind of vulnerability bleeding through her gaze at the moment. This is a first, which only makes him swallow whatever argument and faux reprimand he might have been readying, all in favor of slipping next to her and wrapping her in his arms until she goes completely lax.

"Can you stay here?" she whispers, "Just until I fall asleep?"

"I can," he assures, "but I should probably take you to bed first."

"If you wanna take me to bed, you have to take your clothes off too."

"And why's that?" Her impish smile doesn't go unnoticed.

"I believe getting you naked will guarantee some sweet dreams, no?"

Mon-El chuckles at that, pressing a kiss atop Kara's head. "I'll get naked if you tell me how you got that bruise," he says.

With a whine, the blonde gives his chest a half-hearted swat. "That's not fair," she protests, her head tilting to look up at him.

"Take it or leave it, sweetheart," he smirks.

"Shut up," her brows furrow and she doesn't let him get another word out, opting to cover his lips with her own in a soft but lecherous kiss.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm back again, and as always, I hope you're all staying safe and healthy. ❤
> 
> Let me say that I did not intend to take this long to write and post this chapter, but September was a crazy month full of exams for me, and I was a fool to think I could study and still write as often as I used to. Turns out I couldn't, go figure...😅  
> I also wanna say thank you to everyone who leaves comments on each chapter, it really warms my heart when I read them before updating. You guys are so nice and sweet and it means the world to me!
> 
> I'll let you read now and I hope you'll enjoy this one too.

He takes her to bed but doesn't get naked. He almost expects her to ask again, to _mean_ it this time, but Kara simply drags him along toward her bedroom and leaves him sitting on the mattress as she disappears into the bathroom to take a quick shower and freshen up. A question hangs heavily from Mon-El's lips, fueling the awkwardness he can feel at the tips of his fingers, but it doesn't turn into discomfort. Somehow, for some reason, Kara always makes him feel at ease — even when she's giving him mixed signals or doesn't quite clarify where he's supposed to be standing.

The room is dimly lit, the bed inviting him to lie down and rest his eyes for a moment. But he hesitates at first, unsure as to how far his lines are stretched and how safe he is from crossing one. The longer he waits however, the longer Kara takes in the shower, the deeper Mon-El is lulled. Thus when she finally emerges, he's already drifting off to sleep, barely holding onto the remnants of his consciousness to make sure the blonde is okay and coming back to settle beside him.

She doesn't dry her hair or say a word before slipping underneath the covers, a hand pulling the sheets over him carefully. He expects her to say something, to kick him out of her bed perhaps. Nonetheless, Kara simply smiles at him and brushes his hair away from his forehead when he opens one eye to look at her. The night is quiet, the weariness heavy on both of them, so Mon-El doesn't question her gentle touches or lack of speaking. And when she makes herself comfortable with an arm wrapped around his own, he doesn't pull away, opting to ignore his lowered guard and take the closeness and comfort she's openly sharing with him.

He's getting used to this; taking what he's being given, accepting answers without asking questions, letting her guide him wherever she pleases even though he never knows which direction they're running in. He doesn't need to put a name on what they have; he can understand her unavailability. After all, he's spent too long shielding his own heart too, keeping its jagged pieces together with bleeding hands and building wall after wall around it, terrified of getting hurt again. Kara hasn't given him a reason why she doesn't want something more, nor why she is unwilling to give it a shot. And Mon-El can't ask, because he knows doing so will only cause her to run away. He's okay, though; right there, just like that. He's okay because he isn't sure he's ready for something more – something _real_ – either.

The blonde's breathing evens out within minutes, her exhaustion luring her into Morpheus' hold rather quickly. Soon after, Mon-El joins her, his thoughts easing to a halt until he's falling into a silent dreamland.

It feels like mere moments have passed when his alarm goes off some time after seven a.m., his heavy eyelids reluctant to open. The doctor blindingly taps at his phone's screen to turn it off and releases an exhausted breath. "Damn it," he mumbles, turning his head to check on Kara — thankfully, she doesn't seem disturbed, still deep into her dreams.

She switched positions at some point during the night, her body inching even closer to his. Their heads rest on the same pillow now, her bent knee touching his side. Mon-El lies there for a bit looking at her, counting her breaths, tracing her features, studying her details: from the permanent rosiness suffused over her cheek to the faint shadows underneath her eyes to the new cut above her eyebrow. He's memorizing her, because he's never seen her in the morning light, still asleep and oblivious to the world. Even the few times they've fallen asleep on each other's couch, she's been the first one up, robbing him of the chance to catch her in that peaceful, unaware state. And now he can't help it; he's a greedy man when it comes to her and tearing his eyes away is proving to be a task more difficult than he could've ever imagined.

His fingers ache to touch her skin, itching to reach out and feel the warmth she's radiating. And his mouth is craving to meet hers, even if only for a soft, almost nonexistent kiss. Instead, Mon-El bites his lip, fighting against his urges and begrudgingly slips out of the covers and off the bed. He wants too much; things he's never been given permission to seek. And although he knows Kara isn't one to shy away from mild affection and their casual intimacy, he's more comfortable when he lets her initiate it most of the time.

He walks out of her bedroom and her apartment and into his own, trying to ignore the morning chill and the shivers trailing up his spine. He's already running late, already knows he won't be at the hospital before eight to get a head-start on the paperwork that's been piling up before his shift starts. He doesn't mind too much, though. He's too tired and too distracted by the fact he woke up beside Kara to focus on the extra hours he's going to have to stay behind later in the evening.

By the time he's ready to leave, the blonde isn't up yet. Mon-El stands there pondering for a moment and eventually decides not to go to work right away. He goes to the coffee shop two blocks away, the one Kara always gets her beloved pumpkin spice latte from, and then stops by the bakery that's only around the corner from their apartment building to get a box of donuts. He still has the spare key Kara had given him once, when he'd gone to pick something up for her while she was working, so sneaking back into her kitchen isn't an issue. He sets the latte and the donut box (minus three donuts he'd grabbed for himself) atop the counter, slipping a note underneath the cup. And then, only then, with one last glance at the direction of her half-closed bedroom door, he sets off at last.

* * *

Mon-El might not be a surgeon, but he does know how to open someone up. He spent the first couple of years of his residency shadowing a surgeon, thinking the operating room was where he belonged, and even when he realized he preferred the ER, his OR experience put him straight at the position of chief resident. He ranked up as an attending at a hospital that was right in the center of a shady area in a big city, which meant that, daily, he would see more gunshot wounds and stabbings than cold's and flu's. And when he moved to National City General, despite the fact he was the new guy, he ended up spending nearly as much time in the OR as in the ER in the beginning, because two surgical residents had quit out of the blue and left them short-staffed and desperate.

Being an ER doctor is a vast and wild choice of a career. His job is to pinpoint issues, identify problems, diagnose and deal with everything immediately life-threatening, in order to stabilize long enough for another specialized doctor to take over. Sometimes all he can do is patch up, that much is true, but when someone's life is hanging by a thread and it's touch-and-go in a matter of minutes, the patch-up that will secure a heartbeat for those few significant minutes makes all the difference. Other times a lot more is required from him, and although he doesn't make a habit of digging into people's bodies and holding their internal organs in his gloved hands (thank God there are other doctors for this one), he _is_ trained to grab that scalpel and fix what needs to be fixed (providing it doesn't take longer than ten minutes — that's the most he can get in a chaotic jungle like the emergency room). No matter how many times his skills and duties overlap with other specialties however, he tends to avoid the first floor, where the OR's are. The ER is his place; it's where he thrives; where he can make the world spin. He only goes up there when he doesn't have an alternative, which is why he's definitely not happy when he's called to assist in a surgery a few hours into his shift.

Okay, assist is a bit of an overstatement. They don't really need him up there. But the patient is one of his own, a man he literally fought for two days ago when he was given his case after three failed attempts to diagnose his condition. He stood against three different physicians, each with their own inaccurate opinion, and when he "won", Mon-El basically demanded to be notified when the man would inevitably end up on the surgical table. He didn't expect it to be so soon, but it turns out that his was the correct diagnosis all along. Even Alex Danvers tells him so when he steps into her OR.

And now that's another thing he's definitely not happy about: being in Alex Danvers' OR. It isn't like they haven't worked together, because they have. And it isn't like he doesn't respect her or hold her to high standards as a professional, because he does. But more often than not, the ER is where the two cross paths, and with that comes a certain ease and confidence — not to mention the higher rank. In the OR, though, he's below her and that unnerves him. In his experience, surgeons tend to be too territorial and bigheaded for his tastes and the last thing Mon-El wants is to clash with Kara's sister.

"Dr. Matthews," the redhead greets him somberly as soon as their eyes meet. "I was told you requested to be present during Mr. Parker's surgery."

"I did," he nods. "Thank you for letting me scrub in with you, I appreciate it." He takes another step in but doesn't approach her, unsure as to how much freedom he's been granted. "I suppose you've heard of the incident in the ER two days ago. Mr. Parker's case caused a bit of unrest down there. I just wanted to make sure he'll be okay, I was the one who insisted on the surgery after all."

"A bit of unrest?" Alex's brow quirks. "That's an interesting way to say a fight broke out and you nearly got fired."

"You do what you have to do to help your patients, right? I couldn't send Mr. Parker home to die, because some people failed to come up with a correct diagnosis."

"I guess it's a good thing you insisted then, because you were right. I knew it as soon as I heard of the news."

"Oh. You already knew what's happened. The nurses made their rounds, I see," he says but his tone is more amused than accusatory.

"Olsen told me," she fills him in.

"Ah," the corners of his eyes crinkle, betraying the unsurprised smile hiding underneath his mask. "You two are friends. Right."

"And you're friends with Kara," Alex says, changing the subject. She doesn't leave him any room for doubts or refusals. "She talks a lot about you, you know."

"All good things, I hope."

"Of course," taking her place beside the surgical table, she gestures for him to join her on the opposite side, before continuing her sentence, "which has me wondering about what she isn't telling me about you and her."

"What is there to tell? We're just friends," Mon-El feigns ignorance, moving to his designated spot (it seems like he will actually assist after all).

"Yeah, of course. She's mentioned that. Just like she's mentioned about your six calls last night, and the meal you cooked for her the other week, and the coffee she came all the way to the hospital to bring you the other afternoon." With a pointed look, she dares him to contradict her words, but he remains silent. "And let's not forget about that time she woke up at five in the morning to come pick you up, because you'd been working for twenty hours straight and she didn't want you walking home overworked like that."

"So? We're really good friends," he says, following Alex's gaze as it lands on the anesthesiologist. The man informs the surgeon that she can begin and that's when Mon-El notices just how many people have filtered into the room and have been listening to the conversation between him and Dr. Danvers. He tenses up for a brief moment, already dreading the gossip that will be circling the hospital walls by the time the operation will be done. He doesn't have time to dwell on it, however, because Alex requests a scalpel and all casual talk is replaced by medical talk, drawing everyone present into the appropriate headspace and role.

Alex is a leader. A few hours in the operating room with her are enough to figure that out. There's an unmistakable commanding aura surrounding her that Mon-El can sense as boldly as every other member of her team. Her confidence doesn't blur into arrogance, though, and he somehow ends up trusting her and following each of her instructions quite easily. She has a way of controlling her OR without shadowing everyone else working beside her, and to Mon-El's utter surprise, the older Danvers doesn't look down upon his specialty once during their time working together. Usually, he has to navigate through insulting comments masked as jokes and downgrading criticism from other doctors, as if the circumstances under which he has to work everyday somehow make him less of a skilled physician, but Alex Danvers is different. Despite the fact she clearly has the lead, he isn't restricted or hindered while doing his job. They communicate well and she trusts his capabilities as much as he respects her expertise. Thus, they work through that five-hour long surgery with an unexpected but much-appreciated ease.

Mon-El doesn't stay until they close Mr. Parker up. The ER is full and he's needed downstairs. But before he steps out the doors, Alex thanks him for the assistance and assures him she will let him know how the patient is doing after the post-op evaluation.

When he leaves, it's with a very good impression of Kara's sister. Something tells him their conversation about him and the blonde is far from over, though.

* * *

It's late when Mon-El arrives at Kara's apartment for game night. She and her friends have already played multiple rounds and emptied several wine and beer bottles, all balancing on various points of tipsiness. At the moment, it's hard to believe half of them are federal agents and the other half doctors, seeing that all seriousness has melted away from their bodies, but he loves the way Kara's cheeks are flushed and her eyes sparkle underneath the living room lights. The look suits her; she looks absolutely stunning.

He tries not to stare, aware of the curious gazes watching him on occasion. Olsen keeps sending him amused looks and Alex is carefully studying every move he and Kara make when they're close to each other. The blonde doesn't seem deterred though; or, perhaps, she hasn't even noticed. The liquor running through her veins has softened her in a way that's making her careless. And at one point, Mon-El has to disappear into the bathroom to recover from all the sneaky, mostly inappropriate touches Kara manages to surprise him with without anyone else noticing.

The evening slips by with more games, until Kara and Mon-El are no longer allowed to pair up again (beating everyone at four different games is too much, apparently). They tone it down on the alcohol, sobering up enough to be able to drive home safely, and by the time only the hostess and the neighbor who lives next door have remained, Kara has gotten even bolder with the latter.

No sooner has Alex shut the door behind her, being the last one to leave, than the younger Danvers claims a seat atop Mon-El's lap. With a confident smile, she steals a sip from his drink and settles there, content and perhaps oblivious to what she's doing to him.

"Kara?" he speaks quietly, an arm wrapping around her waist. "I think your sister has figured out there's something going on between us."

"I know," she shrugs a shoulder, lifting the bottle up to her lips again before passing it back to him. "She mentioned it."

"Really? Then why didn't you tell me not to come? You know I wouldn't have minded."

"I would have," she responds, eyes locking with his. "I wanted you here."

"Okay," is all he says and his thumb starts moving in a slow caress across her clothed skin. His touches aren't as eager or as lustful as hers had been, quite the opposite actually, but he still doesn't shy away from a certain amount of contact. He wants her too, after all, and there is nobody to make him hold back now.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Of course," a small smile graces his lips.

"I don't know what I'm doing with you." The blonde's chin lowers, a crinkle appearing between her brows. Her gaze settles somewhere behind Mon-El's shoulder and, a second later, she attempts to slide off his lap.

"I don't understand. What is that supposed to mean?" he wonders, his arms holding her in place.

An exaggerated groan escapes her. "You know what it means."

"I really don't," he chuckles, using a hand to prompt her to look at him again.

"My sister and all my friends were here and the only thing I cared about was that you weren't. And then, when you came, it was all about how I wanted to do anything other than what we were actually doing."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"Shut up," she says, a complain in her tone they both know is fake. "I saw you last night. This is ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous."

"Last night, hmm?" A mocking laugh accompanies the words. "Joke's on you, 'cause I saw you this morning," he grins.

"Jerk," she mumbles with furrowed brows but then smiles too. "Thanks for the latte and the donuts, by the way."

"You're welcome."

Blue eyes study gray ones, teeth peaking out to bite on the blonde's bottom lip, and she uses the brief pause to consider her next words before speaking again. "We're blurring the line, aren't we?"

"Since the very start," Mon-El confirms, but he doesn't look bothered by the fact.

"But we're okay, right?" Kara asks, as if the position they're in doesn't provide an adequate indication of that. "I mean, we know where we're standing. That hasn't changed, has it?"

"Nope," he says, and as if he can't help himself any longer, he leans in to steal a kiss from her frowning mouth.

He isn't sure if that's his way of silencing her spiraling thoughts or if he's too desperate to avoid giving her a proper answer. Truth be told, they are not only blurring the line between friendship and romance, they're also messing up his own ability to differentiate the two as far as Kara is concerned. Thus Mon-El doesn't trust himself to say the right thing and offer the appropriate responses if the blonde continues on with the conversation. Therefore, he decides to drag her along a conversation of a completely different kind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 is finally here guysssss!  
> Thank you for your patience. I hope you'll like it. ❤️

It's a gloomy afternoon, full of grays and oranges and browns and soaked in autumn drizzles. The rain has stopped at last, but the breeze outside is cold and unwelcoming. Thus Mon-El finds himself cooped up in a cozy coffee shop, sipping a warm drink and quietly reading a book he hasn't had the chance to touch in a month.

There's an opened, read text on his lit-up phone screen, which he glances at every other minute, though it was sent ten minutes ago. He knows exactly what it says as well as the fact Kara should be arriving soon. Still, his gaze keeps going back, just before looking over at the door to check if she's here yet.

The place isn't overly crowded, but the blonde manages to sneak in at a moment Mon-El gets distracted by his book. She spots him quickly and heads his way with quiet, yet eager steps. "Hello, handsome," echoes her cheerful greeting, her head lowering to press a kiss on his cheek. 

"Hello," he says back. Immediately, a smile appears on his face, while she proceeds to push her chair closer to his own and sits down, instead of settling across – and farther – from him. "Someone's in a good mood today."

"I always am when I get to see you."

"Really?" his response is instant. His gray eyes widen dramatically. "'Cause the two fuck off's and the three fuck you's I got the other day beg to differ." 

Kara scoffs at his words. "Mornings when you wake me up at the crack of dawn and make me go running with you don't count," she says and reaches for his drink.

"Ugh, don't start. I didn't make you do anything." There's a pause so she can take a sip of his coffee, her smugness obvious although he doesn't mind the gesture. In reality, he watches her with an impressed – and quite enamored – countenance. "I suggested it and you agreed," he adds.

"Of course I agreed, I hadn't seen you in days! I'd missed you and you used my weakness against me," she puts the cup down only to swat at his arm half-heartedly.

Mon-El doesn't try to avoid the hit, simply chuckles at her and a smirk lingers afterwards. "So I'm your weakness, now? I like that."

An eye-roll comes to complement Kara's earlier scoff. "Like you didn't know it already."

"I did," he boasts, "but it's nice to hear you admitting it."

For a minute, they stay silent, their locked gazes saying everything their mouths wouldn't dare to. The blonde bites her lip, a nervous telltale he can easily recognize at this point, and he wants to kiss her. The way she looks, the distance she isn't afraid to eradicate, the faint blush on her cheeks from her earlier confession all mesmerize him and awaken his growing desire. But they're in a public place, and it's close enough to Kara's work that it's possible an acquaintance or colleague of hers might be around. Thus he restraints himself, even though he's certain she's thinking of the same thing — her brazen stare on his lips is an undeniable indication.

"So," she begins, putting an elbow on the table and resting her chin upon her palm. "Thanksgiving is coming soon."

"I know."

"Have you planned anything?"

"No, not yet," Mon-El shakes his head, "I might be working. I had the day off last year, so I'll probably be stuck in the hospital this time around." She gives him a nod. "What about you? What are your plans?"

A shrug is her response. "I usually have dinner with my family and some friends. My mom drives up here in the morning and we spend the whole day cooking before everyone gathers at my place."

"That sounds nice."

"It is. Usually. But Eliza and Alex had a big fight last week and I'm not in the mood to deal with them or play Switzerland. So I told them I'll be working until late and my sister will have to host this time. If they don't kill each other before dinner, I'm expecting it to be an interesting evening." She finishes her sentence with a forced grin which, alone, entails both a hint of amusement and a same old frustration that feels more like a well-known, accepted inconvenience at this point.

"So what? You're not a fan of family drama? What's a holiday without a little resentment to spice things up?"

"I'm tired of their back and forth, to be honest," she says and the sigh that comes out of her mouth makes his brows furrow in concern.

His hand reaches for a blond strand and tucks it behind her ear. "Do you want to join me at the gym tomorrow? I'm offering to be your punching bag if it's gonna make you feel better."

A reluctant smile and a brief laugh from her switch the mood again. "That's nice and all, and I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you're always my punching bag when we train together." A spark of mischief flushes within her gaze. "You can't throw a punch to save your life, Matthews."

"Maybe you're a bad teacher," he sasses.

"Or maybe you're a helpless case," she says back.

A waitress brings Kara's drink and the conversation continues to flow as naturally as it always does between the pair. But soon, the blonde's break comes to an end and she has to go back to work. So they have to say goodbye.

Mon-El holds the door open for her, which she rolls her eyes at, but thanks him for anyway. And as they walk out of the coffee shop and across the sidewalk, her hand ventures into his jacket pocket to find his. He doesn't say anything and she doesn't look at him properly, opting to watch for his reaction from the corner of her eye. When he intertwines their fingers and steps close enough their sides are practically touching, the risky move feels more like vindication than uncertainty.

It's a quiet walk, which they cut short at a crossroad further down the block. Kara has to go right, Mon-El has to go left, so there's no other choice than to pull apart and promise to talk later.

And that's exactly what they do — but in the last second, they exchange a venturous glance and simultaneously lean in for a quick kiss. It's barely a dry peck, and it's over as soon as it's started, but it leaves an unruly smile on both of their faces. And then, they walk away at last.

* * *

Less than five minutes have passed when Mon-El's phone starts ringing, the blonde's face popping up on his screen. He answers but doesn't get a second to say a word before she's spoken.

"What was that?" she asks, her voice sounding frantic through the line.

"What was what?"

"Did we go on a date? Was this a date?"

The brief wave of concern melts away and his chest starts shaking with laughter. "Where did this come from? What are you talking about?"

"You asked me out. And I came. And we talked. And then we kissed goodbye."

"We've gone out so many times, why was today different?" he wonders.

"Because–" she exclaims and he already knows she's freaking out even though he can't see her anymore, "because we kissed! We went on a date and then we kissed!"

"Hey, hey, Kara, calm down," a small frown replaces the previous amusement, "we were just hanging out. Just you and me. Like we usually do."

"But the kiss–"

He cuts her off: "we kiss all the time when we hang out at my place or yours. It's what we do, isn't it? Just two friends having fun, no?"

"When you put it that way," she trails off and a sigh slips out to express anything else she might be holding back.

"I promise you, nothing's changed between us. And I haven't changed my mind. I like what we are, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do," is her mumbled response, "of course I do."

"Great. Then go back to work and stop freaking out over nothing."

"I'm not freaking out!" she argues — a lie they're both aware of.

"Yeah, right," he says, mockery dripping from each syllable. "Bye, Danvers."

"Oh, fuck off," she hangs up, adding another profanity to his list and raising the count to even the fuck you's.

Needless to say, the curse passes Mon-El by. She's managed to mess his head up with that question and the answer is not an easy one to find. Still, even though he can't decide if it was a date or not, and despite the wishful thinking he isn't ready to acknowledge yet, he realizes how hard it is to dance along the line drawn and not cross it. Every move, every touch, every word can be a step too far. And sometimes, he isn't the only one who's forgetting his limits. For the first time he can see Kara stumbling along with him, losing herself in that thing blooming between them. She's just as lost as he is — or, maybe, they're not lost, but simply walking down a path they weren't prepared for. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's stressed out of her mind and completely disregarded studying for a final today to write this chapter? That's right, me 😂  
> And guess who's basically required to leave nice comments under this chapter to cheer me up? That's right, you are 😁
> 
> All joking aside though, I hope you're all doing well and staying safe and healthy ❤️

"Alright, let's give her a liter of fluid. Two units of plasma, two units of blood. Once her pressure stabilizes, we're gonna move her to CT," Mon-El says, throwing his bloody gloves away and checking over the patient's stats one last time. He's unsure of the new resident helping him on this case and the first step he takes away from the patient's bed is a reluctant one, truth be told, but he trusts the nurses to keep the girl stable and page him immediately if need be. "Call me if there's any change, I'm gonna go get some water." Numerous nods are offered in response, although he doesn't notice. His gaze is low instead, inspecting his scrubs and making sure they're still clean. (It's the third pair he's changed into today — and the last one.)

Heading out of the room, he stalls for a second to disinfect his hands and catches the head nurse's gaze. "Dr. Matthews," she calls out, "there's an agent who needs to speak with you about your patient. Do you have a minute or should I tell her to wait?"

"No, it's fine, I can talk to her now. Could you tell her to find me in the break room?" She nods at his request. "Thank you," he says and keeps walking.

Unsurprisingly, there's only one agent coming to mind, yet he wouldn't bet in her favor. Kara has been to the hospital plenty of times, but never for business. The police come and go every day, given the fact this city isn't a quiet one by any means, to the point Mon-El can tell a handful of cops by name. A federal agent, though? That's rare. Thus he chooses not to get his hopes up, because it seems unlikely _his fed_ is the one asking for him today.

Heading to the refrigerator, he also grabs his phone to send the blonde a quick text. He hasn't seen her much lately, because they've been working opposite shifts again. And come to think of it, the last time he saw her for longer than five minutes must have been that coffee _non-date_ a week ago. So he types a simple greeting, and before he can press 'send', the door opens behind him.

"There you are." Speak of the devil. "Just the man I wanted to see," Kara says walking in.

He mumbles her name in a low voice once he's turned to face her, completely dumbfounded for a moment. "What are you doing here? You're not hurt, are you?" His brows furrow.

"No, I'm fine," she shakes her head and approaches with light steps. "I need to speak with you about a patient. You're the one who's treating Mrs. Williams, right?"

"Yes. What about her?" Mon-El takes a sip of his water bottle, studying the blonde.

"Well, first of all, how is she? Is she gonna make it?"

"Probably," he nods. "She's stable for now, but she's bleeding internally. We're waiting for her pressure to rise a bit so we can do a CT scan to determine where the bleeding is coming from. Then she'll be sent to surgery right away. I think your sister's working today, she'll probably take the patient over after me."

"Okay. Um," Kara takes a deep breath, not liking the news, "is there any chance I can talk to her before the surgery?"

"No," Mon-El replies, "she's pretty out of it. I'm sorry."

A disappointed grimace is her response. "Guess I'm gonna have to wait till tomorrow, then."

"What's going on?" The question gets him a frown, one he supposes means that she can't actually answer. "I mean, I know you can't tell me the specifics, but how serious is it? Do I need to alert the hospital Mrs. Williams could pose a threat when she wakes up?"

"No, no, she's fine," Kara is quick to reassure him. "She's a key-witness in an ongoing investigation. If anything, she's the one being threatened. We're not sure the crash was a simple accident and, as you said, I can't ask her right now."

Mon-El opens his mouth to speak again, to ask if there's anything else he can help her with, but his pager goes off. They both glance at it and he sighs. "I'll see you later?"

"Sure. When does your shift end?" she asks.

"In a couple of hours."

"Great, I'll be home by then. You should come by, I'll order takeout."

"Are you bribing me with food, Danvers?" his tone is playful.

She shrugs in response. "You know what they say. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"I'm already yours," he singsongs, a grin adorning his face as they head outside the break room.

"I know," Kara mocks, "you're _so_ weak," a laugh accompanies the words and she teasingly pinches his side, before letting him go back to saving lives.

* * *

He gets home later than promised, but she's still waiting for him. Her door has been left ajar, her shoe serving as a makeshift blockage and preventing it from shutting properly. When he steps into her place, the blonde is sitting cross-legged on the couch, going through paperwork. And at first he wants to scold her for leaving the door like that, though he decides against it. Everyone in the building knows where she works; and nobody is stupid enough to break into a fed's house.

So, rather than accosting her, he simply walks over and drops on the couch unceremoniously. Some of her papers get trapped under his butt, others flying right on the floor. And just like he expects, Kara makes a protesting sound and finally lifts her chin to acknowledge him.

"Hi," he says, a smirk on his lips.

"You're annoying," she scoffs in response and swats his arm too gently to be considered a hit, "and late. What took you so long?"

Mon-El stretches his legs out. His body relaxes further into the cushioned seat. "Winn was running late. I had to stay back and cover for him."

Kara's eyes narrow but she nods, satisfied with his excuse. "I already ate, I couldn't wait any longer. But there's plenty of food left," she says, using a hand to gesture toward the kitchen counter, leading his gaze to the takeout containers gone untouched.

"Thanks," he replies sitting up, "I'm starving."

He walks to her kitchen and starts opening cabinets and drawers with a kind of ease unfit for a neighbor. Knowing that Kara will surely try to steal bites from his plate, Mon-El grabs an extra fork and two glasses to fill with wine. His motions betray the freedom he's been granted and when he catches her watching him, the blonde isn't embarrassed in the slightest. Her confidence is clear, same as her boldness. So the doctor doesn't hesitate and strides over to press a quick but forceful kiss upon her lips.

It's one of those days it seems. Sometimes they keep a respectable distance and hardly venture into the kind of intimacy that could put their friendship in question. And other times, like tonight, the line is crossed so relentlessly, they forget it's ever existed.

He moves everything to the coffee table, careful not to stain any of her important papers. Then he fills her glass up and offers it to her without a word. The silence persists as she does her thing and he does his. No awkwardness can be felt, no tension — only a tender domesticity that's snuck up on them while they've been too busy pretending they are less than what they actually are.

Mon-El doesn't try to decipher Kara's mumbled words, instead focusing on his phone and answering emails. Every now and then, he forks a bite and holds it out for her. And by the time she's finished her work, her glass is empty and his own has already been refilled.

"I heard something today at the hospital," the blonde starts, a crinkle between her brows making her look troubled. She clears the space in front of her and scoots closer to Mon-El.

"What?" he asks.

"Something about you," she clarifies, her tone lower now, perhaps a little tentative. "The nurses were gossiping about you."

"Me?" the corners of his mouth curve down in a frown.

"Yeah. They said you might be leaving. Something about a job offer?"

"Oh. Where did they even hear that?"

She shrugs. "I asked Alex about it too. Even she knew."

"It's not that big a secret, I guess." Scratching his cheek, Mon-El repositions himself to face her properly. Her gaze is lowered, as if she's afraid to look at him. "There have been a few offers."

"But are you thinking of accepting one?"

"I was a while ago. Before I moved here. Before you and I got close."

"Okay," she nods. "And now? What are you thinking now?"

"I don't know, to be honest. The truth is I accepted a job in San Diego shortly after I met you, but I'm supposed to start there in two months. The position isn't vacant yet, so I can still turn it down," he explains.

"Is that what you want, though? I'm guessing that you had your reasons to accept it in the first place."

A sigh slips from his mouth. A hand runs through his hair. "It's the same thing I'm doing here, but they offered me more money. And it's the hospital I completed my residency at, so I said yes without really thinking about it."

Kara doesn't speak, letting his words float and settle between them. They jump from his slumped shoulders to her tightened chest, back and forth, until they create enough tension to make the atmosphere feel heavy. She reaches out for the bottle of wine and fills her glass up to the brim. Then she takes a large gulp, almost choking on the mouthful.

"I haven't decided if I want to leave yet," he admits after a long pause.

"But you haven't decided if you want to stay either," she voices what he doesn't say.

Vulnerable eyes stare at her, hinting at a hundred different things she doesn't quite catch. "Can I be completely honest with you?" A simple nod is her response. "You're the only thing holding me back right now."

"Mon-El," she shakes her head, "you can't say that."

"It's true."

"Maybe. But if I'm the only reason you have to stay, that means you're expecting something more from me, something big enough to surpass the importance of the job. I can't promise you that much."

"Come on, Kara," he stands up, his nerves on edge. "You already know you're more important than a job. I don't have to tell you that."

"But I shouldn't be. I can't be. This is your life we're talking about."

"Yeah, I know." Mon-El rubs his face hard enough for the skin to turn red. He begins pacing in front of her.

"Hey, hey," she stands too, a hand reaching for him before he can go too far. "Whatever you decide, I'm with you."

"I don't want to lose you and we both know that I will, if I leave," he speaks in a whisper. The possibility is too frightening to be spoken at a higher volume.

"You know what?" She cups his cheeks and offers a doleful smile. "Let's not think about it right now. It's not like you're running out of time, right? You have two months to decide."

He doesn't tell her the timeframe isn't exactly right, that he should announce his final decision in three to four weeks. And he doesn't mention that he's been delaying it ever since she showed up, even though he knew the more attached he grew to her, the harder it would be for him in the end. He doesn't ask her to ask him to stay. And he doesn't say that he knows she won't. He keeps the details to himself, locked behind lips firmly shut.

It should be easy to decide. Even easier to leave. His family lives in California, thus he'll be able to see them more often if he moves to San Diego. Winn will probably follow after him in a year or two, like Mon-El did when his best friend came to National City. The money is better and the workload will be lighter there. Plus, and perhaps most importantly, taking that job is a better career move than staying here. Because his mentor is the one who made him the offer and Mon-El's heard that he's planning to retire soon. Which means accepting the position comes with the prospect of becoming the ER chief when Dr. Jefferson steps down. It's something he talked about before Mon-El left; if he really is retiring, it makes sense that he decided to reach out with the offer when he did.

Blue eyes study him, steady and gentle and warm. And he's looking right back at them, already lost, already weakened. They're a magnet, always pulling him closer. Maybe a chain, holding him in place since the first time they gazed at him. He can't let go — doesn't know how to. And if he's being completely honest, he doesn't want to either.

His hand lifts up and his fingers squeeze the side of her waist. He's trying to root her on the spot the same way she is. He's forgetting, however, that he doesn't need to. Kara is right here, frozen and completely surrendered. She isn't moving away nor denying him the closeness he's so desperately craving.

With a swift move, their mouths come together in a harsh kiss. It's too needy, too greedy, too violent to care about their teeth clanking and their noses bumping and their bodies crashing against each other and causing them to stumble and nearly fall. It's a new feeling, a new kind of desperation. And they get swept away, like they never stood a chance against it.

A moan, a whine, a blind swerve and they're heading into Kara's bedroom before they can even comprehend what they're doing. All the fervor and lust move along with them, falling onto the mattress when they do, caressing their skin, biting their necks, grazing their backs. Neither Kara, nor Mon-El had enough wine to be drunk, but they're drunk in each other, two dazed figures fitting together like puzzle pieces.

It's cheesy indeed – and a little bit ironic – but they're a perfect duo, whether they acknowledge it or not.

"Should I stop?" he asks, completely breathless and grasping onto the last bit of clarity fighting through the haze of the moment.

"Don't you dare," she says and rolls their bodies over, bringing herself on top and taking the lead.

His clothes come off before hers, but Mon-El responds to Kara's eagerness with a surprisingly slower devotion. He takes his time revealing every inch of bare skin, mouthing along scattered freckles and kissing the scars he doesn't know the stories behind. When he reaches the ones he's more familiar with, the ones he's stitched and cleaned and bandaged, she allows him to stall. She allows him to feel and touch and stroke, until he's convinced they're fully healed — until he knows exactly where they're placed upon the map of their own, joined story.

It's a turning page, this vigorous lovemaking of theirs. And while they may not realize it at the moment, nothing will be the same afterwards. Nonetheless, whatever happens next doesn't matter yet. Now, all that matters is her sweet smile and the sigh of relief that slips from his mouth when their bodies _finally_ merge.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I hope you're all safe and healthy ♥️ Enjoy the new chapter!

Dawn is approaching quicker than desired, but for the time being Kara's bedroom is still pleasantly dark and warm and quiet. Mon-El eases out of his slumber with a soft exhale, the sweetest kind of weariness lingering in his muscles. With a blink the night's events come rushing back. With the first conscious breath Kara's scent hits him afresh. And with a turn of his head he knows he's screwed.

She's beautiful. And so close. And he's absolutely hers for the taking, even if the same doesn't apply when the roles are reversed. A humming sound escapes her, as if she knows he's staring and she's already preparing a cunning comment. Yet she doesn't stir, doesn't look bothered. And when he lifts a hand to brush a tuft of hair aside and caress her cheek, she simply leans into the touch, instinctively perhaps, the last of her inhibitions gone since the moment her eyes shut.

He doesn't know what awaits him come morning. As well as he knows Kara, oftentimes she's a mystery, constantly surprising him and keeping him on edge. But he's gotten really good at taking what he's being given as far as she's concerned, thus he doesn't restraint himself now. His arm snakes around her middle, his body aching to be closer to hers, to savor the intimacy he will most likely be denied once the sun comes up. Her knee bends, one leg finding its way between his own and suddenly there's a hand reaching for him too. Fingers graze his shoulder blade, pulling him in. A blink, a deep inhale, a twitch of her lips and she's awake, looking at him.

"Sorry," he whispers, "didn't mean to wake you."

"What time is it?" she mumbles, her head inching back to glance out the window.

"Still too early."

"Why are you awake then?"

It's a simple question, but it makes his breath hitch in his throat. "I don't know," he says. Frantic eyes and a clenched jaw accompany the words.

"Come here," Kara tightens her grip on Mon-El when his slackens. "It's okay, come here." Arms coax him nearer, wrapping around him securely until he's surrendered.

She hugs him and he doesn't fight it, hiding his face in the crook of her neck instead, breathing her in and venturing a kiss to her neck. Her response is a kiss to his shoulder and she pulls again, closer and closer, till half of his upper body has settled atop her.

There's something about this warmth and gentleness that startles him; he didn't expect it. Because as eager and loving as she was earlier, it was part of an act. Their first time was just fucking: raw, exploring, wild. And her lips were appropriately rough, her hands uncontrollable, her sounds unrestrained, her body demanding. And then, the second time was slow and soft, pure lovemaking. But again, Kara had a role and she was all in. Encouraging words, sweet smiles, deep kisses and honest gazes. She was perfect in both cases, just as present and generous as he was. So now that the atmosphere has shifted, Mon-El isn't sure why she's still so tender with him. He can't figure out where they're standing at the moment.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, her nails scratching the back of his head lightly, calming his nerves.

"Do you regret it?"

Her motions don't stop at the question. Nonetheless, a meager sigh slips from her mouth. "No."

"I thought you would," he says and shifts back to his previous position, needing the distance in order to look at her.

"Why?"

"You barely said a word after..." he leaves it at that, failing to find the right words to finish the sentence. 'Sex' sounds fitting, but too shallow. 'Fucking' feels dirty and disrespectful, even though they both know that's what it was in the beginning. And 'making love' is too intimate and deep to be spoken aloud, crossing a line he cannot even approach, no matter how honest and intense his desire for her has always been.

Kara's face turns and she stares at the ceiling, avoiding his eyes or simply trying to gather her thoughts. "I don't regret anything when it comes to you. Never have."

"Sometimes it feels like it."

"Uncertainty and regret are two different things," she says calmly, contradicting his apparent agitation. With just one look she's got him figured out, it seems. And those seven words are exactly what he needed to hear at the moment. "You don't regret it either, right?"

He shakes his head. The answer has been obvious all along, but he doesn't mind offering confirmation, even if only to humor her. "Never," he borrows her used word and allows his eyes to take in the sight in front of him once more.

She must notice the growing lust in his mesmerized stare, because she chuckles quietly and claims his mouth in a kiss that steals all the air from his lungs. Hovering over Mon-El, her chin lowers to his collarbone to retouch a mark she left there earlier. And with a groan from him, all and any conversation is over with. He's all hers again and she's all his. For as long or as short as this night inevitably lasts.

* * *

He knows the bubble has burst when he gets up later and she's already gone. Her side of the bed is cold, the kitchen empty. Even the drapes are still closed, which is odd, because Kara always pulls them open first thing in the morning.

He looks for a note and checks his phone in case she's texted him, but there's nothing. No explanation, no be-right-back, not even a half-full cup of coffee abandoned on the counter to let him know she had to run and couldn't spare the time to wake him up too. So he stands in her own apartment, alone, already dreading the realization that's starting to dawn on him; she wasn't in a hurry, she just couldn't get away from him fast enough.

It doesn't surprise him, honestly. It makes complete sense. Too much too soon so she bolted. And Mon-El can't fault her for that, can't blame her for reacting the way she's been warning him about. Just like he can't ignore the tightness in his chest or the little voice in the back of his head telling him he fucked up.

Three steps and he's out her door, another three and he's past his own. Ten seconds of breathing to gather his wits, another ten to talk himself out of calling her. Twenty minutes in the shower, five to get dressed, half an hour to have breakfast and a full one before his shift at the hospital starts. He keeps counting, keeps mumbling numbers to distract his head and calm his heart. Because if he doesn't map his route, he'll start thinking about her. And if he starts thinking about her, he'll slip into an endless cycle of doubt, frustration, longing and hopelessness.

His shift starts off with easy cases but a quick pace to keep his mind bouncing from one thing to another. A biker who took a fall and cracked her ribs, a kid in need of an appendectomy, some stitches here, a few broken bones there, minimal blood stains and absolutely no bodily fluids. (This last one alone is a small mercy.) Mon-El runs along the passing time, chasing responsibilities, avoiding breaks. By the time he's halfway through the day, he's managed to bombard his brain enough to forget about his messy situation. And when he's basically forced to take a backseat for a bit (being friends with the nurses doesn't always work in his favor; they see everything and pay enough attention to know when he's pushing it), he's tired enough that all he can do is slump on a chair in the doctor's lounge and get lost in his patient charts and notes.

There are some friendly faces in the room, but he doesn't sit with them. And when they notice how withdrawn he is today, they don't bother him. Too much paperwork, not enough words, thus they understand it's one of those days he should be left alone in his corner. Somehow, though, a steaming cup finds its way to his table, untouched but bearing Olsen's name to betray the one who left it for him. Half a serving of what Winn usually eats for lunch follows. Then a bar of chocolate he's pretty sure is the same brand as the one Eve was munching on earlier.

He doesn't know what they know and doesn't ask why they're being so nice. He gets enough to form an assumption, however, when he catches a whisper of Kara's name and watches Alex hastily exit the lounge as soon as she's noticed he's here too. _She_ must know, which means their common friends in the hospital also know. And since they're being decent instead of annoying, they're probably aware of Kara ghosting him, a fact he's only coming to terms with just now.

It shouldn't bother him, shouldn't be making his skin crawl. And it shouldn't mean this much either. If she's gone, so be it. If it's already over, good for him, because it'll be easier to leave. He's not in love with her, so why should he care? Just a bump on the road, that's all it ever was...

Twelve hours slip away and when he's asked to take on a double shift, Mon-El agrees without a second thought. Work can be his anchor and his cure. He'll treat sick people, fix their problems and take away their pain. It's what he's good at. And if he doesn't find a way to make his own heartache sting a little less, that's okay, because he can pretend. He can brush Winn's texts off with an 'I'm fine', lie to his mom when she asks him whether he's started looking for a place in San Diego, act like he's too busy to go check on yesterday's patient because he might bump into Kara. (She probably sent someone else to question Mrs. Williams in order to eliminate any chance of seeing him, anyway).

When he goes home it's morning again. At this point his hopes are frail, fading. She hasn't contacted him or checked up on him or come to pick him up like she's made a habit of whenever he's pulling doubles. Mon-El can't even remember the last time he worked a full day and walked home alone. Which makes him realize how dependent he's become on her. She's been so subtle in the ways she's lured him in and taken care of him, so casual with her affection that they both forgot to pay attention to the significance and depth of it. And if they didn't forget, they simply ignored it. So now it's come to bite Mon-El in the ass.

He throws a glance at her closed door and pretends his hand isn't itching to knock. The day starts without a smile from her and he pretends it doesn't unnerve him. Everything's okay, seriously. Kara doesn't hold enough power to bring him to his knees — she'd only be able to do that if he was in love with her. But, again, he isn't. Fuck, no. And that stupid, useless, aching thing inside of his chest is not a broken heart. Trust him.

**Author's Note:**

> You know what to do, don't you?  
> Leave a kudos. Write a comment. You'll make me a very happy girl if you do.
> 
> You can find me on wattpad as karamel_dreams, I publish my stories there too, as well as on tumblr as bi-careful


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